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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 










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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



BAYARD TAYLOR 



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WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 




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BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 



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Copyright, 1854, 1855, 1362, 1864, 1866, 1873, 1875, and 1879. 

BY BAYARD TAYLOR, TICKNOR & FIELDS, JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., AND 
HOUGHTON, OSGOOD & GO. 

Copyright, 1882, 1883, 1890, and 1892, 
By MARIE TAYLOR. 

All lights reserved. 

/ 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by II. 0. Houghton & Company. 






PREFACE. 



With the exception of the drama of the " Prophet," the dramatic poems of the 
' Masque of the Gods " and " Prince Deukalion," and the poetical translation of 
Goethe's "Faust," the present volume contains the entire poetical works of Bay- 
ard Taylor. To the poems which were published in a collected or a separate 
form, during the author's life, the editors have added a not inconsiderable number 
of heretofore unpublished poems which were found among bis manuscripts, in a 
more or less finished state, and which, therefore, have not undergone that severe 
revision to which the author would have subjected them had he lived to offer 
them to the public in a permanent shape. The editors say this in justice to Tay- 
lor's reputation as a poet ; in explanation, not in apology, for having presented 
the reader with works which their author may have regarded as unfinished when 
they last came beneath his eyes. It is our purpose to make the following collec- 
tion of Taylor's poems as complete as is possible, and to omit from it nothing in a 
poetical form, with the exceptions above mentioned, to which he once gave his 
serious attention. 

Poetry was the literary element in which Taylor lived and moved and had his 
being; to which all other efforts and all other ambitions were subjected, as vas- 
sals to a sovereign ; and to success in which he gave more thoughtful labor, and 
held its fruits in higher esteem than all the world and all the other glories there- 
of. He travelled pen in hand ; he delivered course after course of lectures in 
the brief nightly pauses of his long winter journeys; he wrote novels, he wrote 
editorials, criticisms, letters, and miscellaneous articles for the magazines and the 
newspapers; he toiled as few men have toiled at any profession or for any end, 
suid he wore himself out and perished prematurely of hard and, sometimes, bitter 
A-ork. 

It is consoling to know that throughout his laborious life, which brougni his 
sensitive, poetical nature into daily contact with stupidity, ignorance, grossness, 
ind with the consequential vulgarity of conceited dolts, he had something to cheer 
*nd to comfort him in those solitary hours through which less imaginative men 
brood over the wrongs and the disgusting histories of their world, and harden 
themselves against the future in a crust of cynical misanthropy. We, who knew 
him intimately, can safely say that he passed no such desponding hours. Hia 
9oul preserved the hopeful freshness of its divine source, it flowed untainted and 
93 nl ting through its earthly course, and finished the circle of its career of life by 



IV PREFACE. 

pouring back into the fountain head a tide as clear and as blameless as the drops 
which consecrate the infant. In its passage through the foul things of the -world 
his nature seemed rather to filter and to purify itself, than to take any stain from 
the baser medium. This childlike purity and joyousness of heart Taylor owed to 
the worship of an art for which his reverence was boundless. To him poetry was 
a second religion, or an intellectual continuation of that natural, moral sentiment 
which lifts man above himself and his fortunes in his aspiration after immortality 
and supernal life. He held that no achievement of man was comparable to the 
creation of a living poem. He saw, with other thinking men, that the work of 
the poet is more like the work of God than any other earthly thing, since it is the 
only product of art that is assured of perpetuity, by the safety with which it can be 
transmitted from generation to generation. He believed himself to be a poet, — 
of what stature and quality it is now for the world to decide, — and in that faith 
he wrought at his vocation with an assiduity, and a careful husbanding of his time 
and opportunities for mental and for written poetical composition, that was won- 
derful as an exhibition of human industry, and in its many and varied results, 
when we take into consideration his wandering life and his diversified and exact- 
ing employments. To him the cultivation of the poetic art was the duty and the 
serious business of his life, — the talent entrusted him, to be put at use, by the 
Master, — while the winning of bread and the struggle for place were subordinate 
cares, as insignificant by comparison as is the duration of one man's life to that of 
the race of man. 

Whatever Taylor produced under the influence of opinions so exalted, and with 
a respect go profound for the nature of his art, whether exercised by himself or by 
another, was serious and conscientious work. It was the product of his highest 
being.- It was the best that all his faculties, focalized upon one bright point, 
could achieve for his own joyous satisfaction, and for the good of his fellow man 
It was more to him than all his other earthly accomplishments combined and 
thrice multiplied. Those who have followed his career of success and of well-won 
honors, who have journeyed with him through the long lines of type that retraced 
his travels, who have crowded together to draw instruction from his lectures, who 
have been moved to admiration by the scenes of his novels, who have pondered the 
pregnant passages of his criticism, who have seen with his eyes, who have been 
taught with his knowledge, who have felt with his heart, and who have thought 
with his mind, must yet look into these poems, — not casually but deeply, — if 
they would know the soul of Taylor, the very essence of the man, the spirit as it 
Btood before God. To know him otherwise — by this act or that, by one success 
or another — is but to know him in the flesh, and to mistake the garment for the 
man. G. H. B. 



CONTENTS. 





PAGE 


PAS* 


fllE POET'S JOURNAL. 




The Temptation of Hassan Bea Rhaled 


38 


Puface: The Return op the 


G0D- 


Shekh Ahnafs Letter from Baghdad 


14 


dess 


. 3 


El Khalil 


48 


INSCRIPTION : TO THE MISTRESS OF 


Song . . . 


48 


Cedarcroft 


5 


Amran's Wooing .... 


49 


First Evening 


7 


The Garden of Irem .... 


53 


The Torso . 


10 


The Wisdom of Ali . 


54 


On the Headland 


. 11 


An Oriental Idyl 


54 


Ma rah . 


11 


Bedouin Song 


55 


The Voice of the Tempter 


. 12 


Desert Hymn to the Sun 


55 


Exorcism 


12 


Nilotic Drinking Song 


56 


Squandered Lives 


13 


Camadeva 


67 


A Symbol . 


13 


Nubia . . .... 


57 


9econd Evening . 


15 


Kilimandjaro 


58 


Atonement 


16 


The Birth of the Prophet 


59 


December 


17 


To the Nile 


60 


Sylvan Spirits 


17 


Hassan to his Mare . 


61 


The Lost May 


. 18 


Charmian 


61 


Churchyard Roses 


18 


Smyrna .... 


62 


Autumnal Dreams 


19 


To a Persian Boy 


62 


Tn Winter 


19 


The Arab to the Palm 


63 


Young Love . 


19 


Aurum Potabile 


63 


The Chapel 


20 


On the Sea 


64 


If Love should come again 


20 


Tyre 


64 




22 


An Answer .... 


65 


The Return of Spring 


24 


L* Envoi 


66 


Morning 


24 


ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 




The Vision 


25 


Dedication: To George H. Beit? 


68 


Love returned 

A Woman 

The Count of Gleichen 

Before the Bridal . 


. 25 

. 26 

26 

27 


Porphyrogenitus .... 
Metempsychosis of the Pine . 
The Vineyard-Saint 
Hylas 


69 
70 
72 
72 


Possession .... 
Under the Moon . 
The Mystic Summer 
The Father . 
The Mother 


. 27 

. 28 

29 

. 29 

30 


Kubleh 

Mon-da-Min .... 
The Soldier and the Pard . 
Ariel in the Cloven Pine . 
The Song of the Camp 


76 

78 
83 
87 
38 


POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 




Icarus .... 


38 


Proem Dedicatory: An Kpistle 


from 


The Bath . ... 


90 


Mount Tmolus . 


. 35 


The Fountain of Trevi . 


»1 


A Psean to the Dawn 


37 


Proposal 


tfl 


The Poet in the E a8t • 


33 


The Palm and the pip* 


W 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



On leaving California . 92 

Euphorion ... .93 

Wind and Sea 94 

My Dead 94 

The Lost Crown 94 

Studies for Picture* . . 95 

Sunken Treasures . .96 

The Voyagers . . .97 

Song 98 

The Mystery . . .98 

A Picture 99 

In the Meadows .... 99 

" Down in the Dell I wandered " . 100 
Song . ...... 100 

The Phantom . . . . .100 

Soldier's Song 101 

The Shepherd's Lament . . . 101 
The Garden of Roses . . .101 

The Three Songs 102 

The Song of Mignon . . .102 
Hartz-Journey in Winter . . . 103 

3ALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND POEMS. 
Manuela . . ... 107 

The Fight of Paso del Mar . . .108 
The Pine Forest of Monterey . . 109 

El Canelo Ill 

The Summer Camp .... Ill 
The Bison Track 114 

fAJtLIER POEMS. 

The Harp: An Ode .... 119 

Serapion 120 

" Moan, ye Wild Winds " . .121 

Taurus . . .121 

Autumnal Vespers .... 122 
Ode to Shelley '. .124 

Sicilian Wine 124 

Storm-Lines 126 

The Two Visions .... 126 
Storm Song 127 

. Song 127 

The Wares 127 

Song 128 

Sonnet . . .... 128 

The Wayside Dream ... 128 

Steyermark .... 129 

To a Bavarian Girl . . 130 

In Italy . ... 130 

A Bacch'c Ode 131 

A Funeral Thought . . 131 

The Norseman's Ride 132 

The Continents 132 

1'Envoi 134 

H*«E 1861. 

Tnrough Baltimore . 137 

fo the American People 137 



Scott and the Veteran 

March 

A Thousand Years 

A Day in March 

The Test . 

The Neva 

A Story for a Child . 
HOME PASTORALS. 

Ad Amicos 

Proem 

May-Time 

August . . . 

November 

L'Envoi 
BALLADS. 

The Quaker Widow 

The Holly-Tree . 

John Reed 

Jane Reed .... 

The Old Pennsylvania Fanner 

Napoleon at Gotha . 

The Accolade 

Eric and Axel 
LYRICS. 

The Burden of the Day . 

In the Lists . 

The Sunshine of the Gods 

Notus Ignoto 

In my Vineyard 

The Two Homes 

Lris 

Dnplora Pace 

Penn Calvin 

Summer Night 

The Sleeper 

My Farm : A Fable 

Harpocrates 

Run Wild 

" Casa Guidi Windows " 

The Guests of Night . 

Chant .... 

Soldiers of Peace 

The Song of 1876 . 

Improvisations 

Marigold 

Will and Law 

True Love's Time of Day 

Youth .... 

The Imp of Spring-Time 

Canopus 

Cupido 

The Voices of Rome 

Pandora 

Sorrento 

The Two Greetings 



CONTENTS. 



Y1J 



To my Daughter 
A Loyer's Test 
A Friend's Greeting 
Peach-Blossom . 
Assyrian Night-Song 
My Prologue 
Gabriel . 

The Lost Caryatid 
The Village Stork 
Sonnet 

From the North . 
A Wedding Sonnet 
Christmas Sonnets 
A Statesman 
A President . 
Sonnet 
To Marie 
)DES 

Gettysburg Od* . 



206 
206 
206 
207 
208 
209 
209 
210 
211 
212 
212 
212 
213 
214 
214 
214 
214 

219 



Shakespeare's Statue . 

Goethe 

The National Ode 

The Obsequies in Rome . 

Epicedium 

THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 

Introductory Note 

Proem : To the Artists . 

Book I. The Artist .... 

Book II. The Woman 

Book III. The Child 

Book IV. The Picture 
LARS: A PASTORAL OF NORWAY. 

Dedication : To John Greenleaf Whi 



tier . 
Book I. 
Book II. 
Book III. 



235 
237 

243 
245 
249 
262 
276 
287 



316 
8» 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Bayard Taylor Frontispiece. 

" When buds have burst the silver sheath " . . 18 

" Thou guardest temple and vast pyramid " . 60 

The Sphinx 84 

"Of canons grown with pine and folded deep ".,........ 112 

TheArno 130 

" Take, here, the path by the pines " 151 

" The mother looked from the house "..... 165 

"Italy, loved of the sun" 203 

William Cullen Bryant 237 

" To silent Venice in her crystal nest " . 255 

^ " A glassy solitude was Como's breast " 284 



THE POET'S JOURNAL. 



PEEFAOE. 



THE RETURN OF THE GODDESS. 

Not as in youth, with steps outspeeding morn, 

And cheeks all bright, from rapture of the way 
But in strange mood, half cheerful, half forlorn, 
She comes to me to-day. 

Does she forget the trysts we used lo keep, 

When dead leaves rustled on autumnal ground.. 
Or the lone garret, whence she banished sleep 
With threats of silver sound ? 

Does she forget how shone the happy eyes 

When they beheld her, — how the eager tongue 
Plied its swift oar through wave-like harmonies, 
To reach her where she sung ? 

How at her sacred feet I cast me down ? 

How she upraised me to her bosom fair, 
And from her garland shred the first light crown 
That ever pressed my hair ? 

Though dust is on the leaves, her breath will bring 
Their freshness back : why lingers she so long ? 
Tie pulseless air is waiting for her wing, 
Dumb with unuttered song. 

If tender doubt delay her on the road, 

Oh let her haste to find the doubt belied! 
If shame for love unworthily bestowed, 

That shame shall melt in pride. 

If she but smile, the crystal calm shall break 

In music, sweeter than it ever gave, 
As when a breeze breathes o'er some sleeping lake, 
And laughs in every wave. 

The ripples of awakened song shall die 

Kissing her feet, and woo her not in vain, 
Until, as once, upon her breast I lie — 
Pardoned, and loved again ! 

B. T. 



INSOEIPTION. 



TO THE MISTRESS OF CEDARCROFT 



The evening shadows lengthen on the lawn : 
Westward, our immemorial chestnuts stand, 

A mount of shade ; but o'er the cedars drawn, 
Between the hedge-row trees, in many a band 

Of brightening gold, the sunshine lingers on, 
And soon will touch our oaks with parting hand 

And down the distant valley all is still, 

And flushed with purple smiles the beckoning hill. 

ii. 

Come, leave the flowery terrace, leave the beds 
Where Southern children wake to Northern air : 

Let yon mimosas droop their tufted heads, 
These myrtle-trees their nuptial beauty wear, 

And while the dying day reluctant treads 
From tree-top unto tree-top, with me share 

The scene's idyllic peace, the evening's close, 

The halm of twilight, and the land's repose. 



Come, for my task is done • the task that drew 
My footsteps from the chambers of the Day, — 

That held me back, Beloved, even from you, 
That are my daylight : for the Poet's way 

Turns into many a lonely avenue 

Where none may follow. He must sing his lay 

First to himself, then to the One most dear ; 

Last, to the world. Come to my side, and hear ! 



The poems ripened in a heart at rest, 
A life that first through you is free and strong, 

Take them and warm them in your partial breast, 
Before they try the common air of song ! 

Fame won at home is of all fame the best : 
Crown me your poet, and the critic's wrong 

Shall harmless strike where you in love have smiled, 

Wife of my heart, and mother of my child ! 



THE POET'S JOURNAL. 



FIRST EVENING. 

The day had come, the day of many years. 

My bud of hope, thomed round with guarding fears, 

And sealed with frosts of oft-renewed delay, 

Burst into sudden bloom — it was the day ! 
" Ernest will come ! " the early sunbeams cried ; 
" Will come ! " was breathed through all the woodlands \> Ide 
" Will come, will come ! " said cloud, and brook, and bird ' 

And when the hollow roll of wheels was heard 

Across the bridge, it thundered, " He is near ! " 

And then my heart made answer, " He is here ! " 

Ernest was here, and now the day had gone 

Like other days, yet wild and swift and sweet, — 

And yet prolonged, as if with whirling feet 

One troop of duplicated Hours sped on 

And one trod out the moments lingeringly : 

So distant seemed the lonely dawn from me. 

But all was well. He paced the new-mown lawn, 

With Edith at his side, and, while my firs 

Stood bronzed with sunset, happy glances cast 

On the familiar landmarks of the Past. 

i heard a gentle laugh : the laugh was hers. 
* Confess it," she exclaimed, " I recognize, 

No less than you, the features of the place, 

So often have I seen it with the eyes 

Your memory gave me : yea, your very face, 

With every movement of the theme, betrayed 

That here the sunshine lay, and there the shade.' 
" A proof ! " cried Ernest. " Let me be your guide," 

She said, "and speak not : Philip shall decide." 

To them I went, at beckon of her hand. 

A moment she the mellow landscape scanned 

In seemiug doubt, but only to prolong 

A witching aspect of uncertainty, 

And the soft smile in Ernest's watching eye : 
: * Yonder," she said, " (I see I am not wrong, 

By Philip's face,) you built your hermit seat 

Against the rock, among the scented fern, 

Where summer lizards played about your fees ; 

And here, beside us, is the tottering urn 

You cracked in fixing firmly on its base ; 



THE POET'S JOURNAL. 

And here — yes, yes ! — this is the very place — 
I know the wild vine and the sassafras — 
Where you and Philip, lying in the grass, 
Disowned the world, renounced the race of men, 
And you all love, except your own for him, 
Until, through that, all love came back again." 
Here Edith paused ; but Ernest's eyes were dim. 
He kissed her, gave a loving: hand to me, 
And spoke : " Ah, Philip, Philip, those were dayi 
"We dare remember now, when only blaze 
Fa^>ff, the storm's black edges brokenly. 
Who thinks, at night, that morn will ever be ? 
Who knows, far out upon the central sea, 
That anywhere is land ? And yet, a shore 
Has set behind us, and will rise before : 
A past foretells a future." " Blessed be 
That Past ! " I answered, " on whose bosom lay 
Peace, like a new-born child : and now, I see, 
The child is man, begetting day by day 
Some fresher joy, some other bliss, to make 
Your life the fairer for his mother's sake." 

Deeper beneath the oaks the shadows grew : 

The twilight glimmer from their tops withdrew, 

And purple gloomed the distant hills, and sweet 

The sudden breath of evening rose, with balm 

Of grassy meadows : in the upper calm 

The pulses of the stars began to beat : 

The fire-flies twinkled : through the lindens went 

A rustle, as of happy leaves composed 

To airy sleep, of drowsy petals closed, 

And the dark land lay silent and content. 

We, too, were silent. Ernest walked, I knew, 

With me, beneath the stars of other eves : 

He heard, with me, the tongues of perished leavei : 

Departed suns their trails of splendor drew 

Across departed summers : whispers came 

From voices, long ago resolved again 

Into the primal Silence, and we twain, 

Ghosts of our present selves, yet still the same, 

As in a spectral mirror wandered there. 

Its pain outlived, the Past was only fair. 

Ten years had passed since I had touched his hand, 

And felt upon my lips the brother-kiss 

That shames not manhood, — years of quiet bliss 

To me, fast-rooted on paternal land, 

Mated, yet childless. He had journeyed far 

Beyond the borders of my life, and whirled 

Unresting round the vortex of the world, 

The reckless child of some eccentric star, 

Careless of fate, yet with a central strength 

I knew would hold his life in equipoise, 

And bent his wandering energies, at length, 

To the smooth orbit of serener joys. 

Few were the winds that wafted to my nest 

A leaf from him : I learned that he was blest, — 

The late fulfilment of my prophecy, — 

And then I felt that he must come to me, 



FIRST EVENING. 

The old, unswerving sympathy to claim ; 
And set my house in order for a guest 
Long ere the message of his coming came. 

In gentle terraces my garden fell 
Down to the rolling lawn. On one side rose, 
Flanking the layers of bloom, a bolder swell 
With laurels clad, and every shrub that glows 
Upon our native hills, a bosky mound, 
Whence the commingling valleys might be seen 
Bluer and lovelier through the gaps of green. 
The rustic arbor which the summit crowned 
Was woven of shining smilax, trumpet-vine, 
Clematis, and the wild white eglantine, 
Whose tropical luxuriance overhung 
The interspaces of the posts, and made 
For each sweet picture frames of bloom and shade. 
It was my favorite haunt when I was young, 
To read my poets, watch my sunset fade 
Behind my father's hills, and, when the moon 
Shed warmer silver through the nights of June, 
Dream, as 't were new, the universal dream. 
This arbor, too, was Ernest's hermitage : 
Here he had read to me his tear-stained page 
Of sorrow, here renewed the pang supreme 
Which burned his youth to ashes : here would try 
To lay his burden in the hands of Song, 
And make the Poet bear the Lover's wrong, 
But still his heart impatiently would cry : 
1 In vain, in vain ! You cannot teach to flow 
In measured lines so measureless a woe. 
First learn to slay this wild beast of despair, 
Then from his harmless jaws your honey tear ! " 

Hither Ave came. Beloved hands had graced 
The table with a flask of mellow juice, 
Thereto the gentle herb that poets use 
When Fancy droops, and in the corner placed 
A lamp, that glimmered through its misty sphere 
Like moonlit marble, on a pedestal 
( )f knotted roots, against the leafy wall. 
The air was dry, the night was calm and clear, 
And in the dying clover crickets chirped. 
The Past, I felt, the Past alone usurped 
Our thoughts, — the hour of confidence had come, 
Of sweet confession, tender interchange, 
Which drew our hearts together, yet with strange 
Half-dread repelled them. Seeing Ernest dumb 
With memories of the spot, as if to me 
Belonged the right his secrets to evoke, 
And Edith's eyes on mine, consentingly, 
Conscious of all I wished to know, I spoke : 
* Dear Friend, one volume of y«>ur life I read 
Beneath these vines : you placed it in my hand 
And made it mine, — but how the tale has sped 
Since then, I know not, or can understand 
From this fair ending only. Let me see 
The intervening chapters, dark and bright. 



10 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 

In order, as you lived them. Give to-night 
Unto the Past, dear Ernest, and to me ! " 
Thus I, with doubt and loving hesitance, 
Lest I should touch a nerve he fain would hide; 
But he, with calm and reassuring glance, 
In which no troubled shadow lay, replied : 
" That mingled light and darkness are no more 
In this new life, than are the sun and shade 
Of painted landscapes : distant lies the shore 
Where last we parted, Philip : how I made 
The journey, what adventures on the road, 
What haps I met, what struggles, what success 
Of fame, or gold, or place, concerns you less, 
Dear friend, than how I lost that sorest load 
I started with, and came to dwell at last 
In the House Beautiful. There but remains 
A fragment here and there, — wild, broken strain* 
And scattered voices speaking from the Past." 
" Let me those broken voices hear/' I said, 
" And I shall know the rest." " Well — be it so. 
You, who would write ' Resurgam ' o'er my dead, 
The resurrection of my heart shall know." 

Then Edith rose, and up the terraces 
Went swiftly to the house ; but soon we spied 
Her white dress gleam, returning through the trees, 
And, softly flushed, she came to Ernest's side, 
A volume in her hand. But he delayed 
Awhile his task, revolving leaf by leaf 
With tender interest, now that ancient grief 
No more had power to make his heart afraid ; 
For pain, that only lives in memory, 
Like battle-scars, it is no pain to show. 
" Here, Philip, are the secrets you would know," 
He said : " Howe'er obscure the utterance be, 
The lamp you lighted in the olden time 
Will show my heart's-blood beating through the rhyme 
A poet's journal, writ in fire and tears 
At first, blind protestations, blinder rage, 
(For you and Edith only, many a page !) 
Then slow deliverance, with the gaps of years 
Between, and final struggles into life, 
Which the heart shrank from, as 't were death instead. 
Then, with a loving glance towards his wife, 
Which she as fondly answered, thus he read : — 



THE TORSO. 



li» .;iay the statue stood complete, 
As beautiful a form, and fair, 

As ever walked a Roman street 
Or breathed the blue Athenian air 
The perfect limbs, divinely bare, 

Their old, heroic freedom kept, 
And in the features, fine and rare, 



II. 

O'er common men it towered a «roJ, 
And smote their meaner life will 
shame, 
For while its feet the highway trod, 
Its lifted brow was crowned witfc 

flame 
And purified from touch of blame : 
Yet wholly human was the face, 
And over them who saw it came 



ft. cairn, immortal sweetness slept. The knowledge of their own disgrace. 



MARAH. 



11 



in. 

It stood, regardless of the crowd, 

And simply showed what men might 
be: 
Its solemn beauty disavowed 

The curse of lost humanity. 

Erect and proud, and pure and free, 
It overlooked each loathsome law 

Whereunto others be*id the knee, 
And only what was noble saw. 



The patience and the hope of years 
Their filial hour of triumph caught ; 

The clay was tempered with my tears, 
The forces of my spirit wrought 
With hands of fire to shape my 
thought, 

That when, complete, the statue stood, 
To marble resurrection brought, 

The Master might pronounce it good. 



But in the night an enemy, 
Who could not bear the wreath should 
grace 
My ready forehead, stole the key 
And hurled my statue from its base ; 
And now its fragments strew the 
place 
Where I had dreamed its shrine might 
be: 
The stains of common earth deface 
Its beauty and its majesty. 



The torso prone before me lies ; 

The cloven brow is knit with pain : 
Mute lips, and blank, reproachful eyes 

Unto my hands appeal in vain. 

My hands shall never work again : 
My hope is dead, my strength is spent 

This fatal wreck shall now remain 
The ruined sculptor's monument. 



ON THE HEADLAND. 

I sit on the lonely headland, 
Where the sea-gulls come and go 

The sky is gray above me, 
And the sea is gray below. 

Hiere is no fisherman's pinnace 
Homeward or outward bound ; 



I see no living creature 

In the world's deserted round. 

I pine for something human, 
Man, woman, young or old, — 

Something to meet and welcome, 
Something to clasp and hold. 

I have a mouth for kisses, 

But there 's no one to give and take 
I have a heart in my bosom 

Beating for nobody's sake. 

warmth of love that is wasted ! 
Is there none to stretch a hand ? 

No other heart that hungers 
In all the living land ? 

1 could fondle the fisherman's baby, 
And rock it into rest ; 

I could take the sunburnt sailor, 
Like a brother, to my breast. 

I could clasp the hand of any 

Outcast of land or sea, 
If the guilty palm but answered 

The tenderness in me ! 

The sea might rise and drown me, — 
Cliffs fall and crush my head, — 

Were there one to love me, living, 
Or weep to see me dead ! 



MARAH. 

The waters of my life were sweet, 
Before that bolt of sorrow fell ; 

But now, though fainting with the heat 
I dare not drink the bitter well. 

My God ! shall Sin across the hean, 
Sweep like a wind that leaves no tra«,e 

But Grief inflict a rankling smart 
No after blessing can efface 1 

I see the tired mechanic take 
His evening rest beside his door, 

And gcntlier, for their father's sake, 
His children tread the happy floor : 

The kitchen teems with cheering smells 
Wi:h clash of cups and clink of knives 

And all the household picture tells 
Of humble yet contented lives. 

Then in my heart the serpents hiss : 
What right have these, who acareelj 
know 



12 



THE POET S JOURNAL. 



The perfect sweetness of their bliss, 
To flaunt it thus before my woe ? 

Like bread, Love's portion they divide, 
Like water drink his precious wine, 

When the least crumb they cast aside 
Were manna for these lips of mine. 

I see the friend of other days 

Lead home his flushed and"silent bride ! 
His eyes are suns of tender praise, 

Her eyes are stars of tender pride. 

Go, hide your shameless happiness, 
The demon cries, within my breast ; 

Think not that I the bond can bless, 
Which seeing, I am twice unblest. 

The husband of a year proclaims 
His recent honor, shows the boy, 

And calls the babe a thousand names, 
And dandles it in awkward joy : 

And then — I see the wife's pale cheek, 
Her eyes of pure, celestial ray — 

The curse is choked : I cannot speak, 
But, weeping, turn my head away ! 



THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER. 

Last night the Tempter came to me, 

and said : 
" Why sorrow any longer for the dead ? 
The wrong is done : thy tears and 

groans are naught : 
Forget the Past, — thy pain but lives 

in thought. 
Night after night, I hear thy cries im- 
plore 
An answer : she will answer thee no 

more. 
Give up thine idle prayer that Death 

may come 
And thou mayest somewhere find her : 

Death is dumb 
To those that seek him. Live : for youth 

is thine. 
Let not thy rich blood, like neglected 

wine, 
Grow thin and stale, but rouse thyself, 

at last, 
And take a man's revenge upon the 

Past. 
What have thy virtues brought thee ? 

Let them go, 
Md with them lose the burden of thy 

woe, 



Their only payment for thy serna 

hard : 
They but exact, thou see'st, and not 

reward. 
Thy life is cheated, thou art cast aside 
In dust, the worn-out vessel of theii 

pride. 
Come, take thy pleasure : others do thi 

same, 
And love is theirs, and fortune, name 

and fame ! 
Let not the name of Vice thine ear 

affright : 
Vice is no darkness, but a different light, 
Which thou dost need, to see thy path 

aright ; 
Or if some pang in this experience lie, 
Through counter-pain thy present pain 

' will die. 
Bethink thee of the lost, the barren 

years, 
Of harsh privations, unavailing tears, 
The steady ache of strong desires re- 
strained, 
And what thou hast deserved, and what 

obtained : 
Then go, thou fool ! and, if thou caust, 

rejoice 
To make such base ingratitude thy 

choice, 
While each indulgence which thy brcth 

ren taste 
But mocks thy palate, as it runs to 

waste ! " 

So spake the Tempter, as he held out- 
spread 

Alluring pictures round my prostrate 
head. 

'Twixt sleep and waking, in my help- 
less ear 

His honeyed voice rang musical and 
clear ; 

And half persuaded, shaken half with 
fear, 

I heard him, till the Morn began to 
shine, 

And found her brow less dewy-wet than 
mine. 



EXORCISM. 

tongues of the Past, be still J 

Are the days not over and gone ? 
The joys have perished that were 

sweet, 
But the sorrow still lives on. 



A SYMBOL. 



13 



I have sealed the graves of my hopes ; 

I have :arried the pall of love : 
Let the pains and pangs be buried as 
deep, 

And the grass be as green above ! 

But the ghosts of the dead arise : 
They come when the board is spread ; 

They poison the wine of the banquet 
cups 
With the mould their lips have shed. 

The pulse of the bacchant blood 
May throb in the ivy wreath, 

But the berries are plucked from the 
nightshade bough 
That grows in the gardens of Death. 

I sleep with joy at my heart, 
Warm as a new-made bride ; 

But a vampire comes to suck her blood, 
And I wake with a corpse at my side. 

ghosts, I have given to you 
The bliss of the faded years ; 

The sweat of my brow, the blood of my 
heart, 
And manhood's terrible tears ! 

Take them, and be content : 
I have nothing more to give : 

My soul is chilled in the house of Death, 
And 'tis time that I should live. 

Take them, and let me be : 
Lie still in the churchyard mould, 

Nor chase from my heart each new de- 
light 
With the phantom of the old ! 



SQUANDERED LIVES. 

The fisherman wades in the surges ; 

The sailor sails over the sea ; 
The soldier steps bravely to battle ; 

The woodman lays axe to the tree. 

They are each of the breed of the he- 
roes, 

The manhood attempered in strife : 
Strong hands, that go lightly to labor, 

True hearts, that take comfort in life. 

In each is the seed to replenish 
The world with the vigor it needs, — 

The centre of honest affections, 
The impulse to generous deeds. 



But the shark drinks the blood of the 
fisher; 

The sailor is dropped in the sea ; 
The soldier lies cold by his cannon ; 

The woodman is crushed by his tree. 

Each prodigal life that is wasted 
In manly achievement unseen, 

But lengthens the days of the cow- 
ard, 
And strengthens the crafty and mean 

The blood of the noblest is lavished 
That the selfish a profit may find ; 

But God sees the lives that are squan- 
dered, 
And we to His wisdom are blind 



A SYMBOL. 



Heavy, and hot, and gray, 
Day following unto day, 
A felon gang, their blind life drag 
away, — 

Blind, vacant, dumb, as Time, 

Lapsed from his wonted prime, 

Begot them basely in incestuous crime* 

So little life there seems 
About the woods and streams, — 
Only a sleep, perplexed with nightmare- 
dreams. 

The burden of a sigh 
Stifles the weary sky, 
Where smouldering clouds in ashen 
masses lie : 

The forests fain would groan, 
But, silenced into stone, 
Crouch, in the dull blue vapors round 
them thrown. 

O light, more drear than gloom ! 
Than death more dead such bloom 
Yet life — yet life — shall burst thi* 
gathering doom ! 



Behold ! a swift and silent fire 

Yon dull cloud pierces, in the west, 

And blackening, as with growing ire, 
He lifts his forehead from his brew* 



14 



THE POET S JOURNAL. 



Fe mutters to the ashy host 
That all around him sleeping lie, — 

Sole chieftain on the airy coast, 
To fight the hattles of the sky. 

He slowly lifts "his weary strength, 
His shadow rises on the day, 

And distant forests feel at length 
A wind from landscapes far away. 

in. 

How shall the cloud unload its thunder? 

How shall its flashes fire the air ? 
Hills and valleys are dumb with won- 
der : 

Lakes look up with a leaden stare. 

Hark ! the lungs of the striding giant 
Bellow an angry answer back ! 

Hurling the hair from his brows de- 
fiant, 
Crushing the laggards along his track. 

Sow his step, like a battling Titan's, 
Scales in flame the hills of the sky ; 



Struck by his breath, the forest whitens* 
Fluttering waters feel him nigh ! 

Stroke on stroke of his thunder-ham 
mer — 
Sheets of flame from his anvi 
hurled — 
Heaven's doors are burst in the clamor 
He alone possesses the world ! 



Drowned woods, shudder no more . 
Vexed lakes, smile as before : 
Hills that vanished, appear again : 
Rise for harvest, prostrate grain I 

Shake thy jewels, twinkling grass 
, Blossoms, tint the winds that pass 
Sun, behold a world restored ! 
World, again thy son is lord ! 

Thunder-spasms the waking be 
Into Life from Apathy : 
Life, not Death, is in the gale, — 
Let the coming Doom prevail ! 



Thus far he read : at first with even tone, 
Still chanting in the old, familiar key, — 
That golden note, whose grand monotony 
Is musical in poets' mouths alone, — 
But broken, as he read, became the chime. 
To speak, once more, in Grief's forgotten tongue, 
And feel the hot reflex of passion flung 
Back on the heart by every pulse of rhyme 
Wherein it lives and burns, a soul might shake 
More calm than his. With many a tender break 
Of voice, a dimness of the haughty eye, 
And pause of wandering memory, he read; 
While I, with folded arms and downcast head, 
In silence heard each blind, bewildered cry. 
Thus far had Ernest read : but, closing now 
The book, and lifting up a calmer brow, 
" Forgive me, patient God, for this ! " he said : 
" And you forgive, dear friend, and dearest wife, 
If I have marred an hour of this sweet life 
With noises from the valley of the Dead. 
Long, long ago, the Hand whereat I railed 
In blindness gave me courage to subdue 
This wild revolt :. I see wherein I failed: 
My heart was false, when most I thought it true. 
My sorrow selfish, when I thought it pure. 
For those we lose, if still their love endure 
Translation to that other land, where Love 
Breathes the immortal wisdom, ask in heaven 
No greater sacrifice than we had given 
On earth, our love's integrity to prove. 



SECOND EVENING. 15 

If we are blest to know the other blest, 
Then treason lies in sorrow. Vainly said ! 
Alone each heart must cover up its dead ; 
Alone, through bitter toil, achieve its rest : 
Which I have found — but still these lecords keep, 
Lest I, condemning others, should forget 
My own rebellion. From these tares I reap, 
In evil days, a fruitful harvest yet. 

61 But 't is enough, to-night. Nay, Philip, here 
A chapter closes. See ! the moon is near : 
Your laurels glitter : come, my darling, sing 
The hymn I wrote on such a night as this ! " 
Then Edith, stooping first to take his kiss, 
Drew from its niche of woodbine her guitar, 
With chords prelusive tuned a slackened string, 
And sang, clear-voiced, as some melodious star 
Were dropping silver sweetness from afar : 

God, to whom we look up blindly, 
Look Thou down upon us kindly : 
We have sinned, but not designedly. 

If our faith in Thee was shaken, 
Pardon Thou our hearts mistaken, 
Our obedience reawaken. 

We are sinful, Thou art holy : 
Thou art mighty, we are lowly : 
Let us reach Thee, climbing slowly. 

Our ingratitude confessing, 

On Thy mercy still transgressing, 

Thou dost punish us with blessing 1 



SECOND EVENING. 

It was the evening of the second day, 
Which swifter, sweeter than the first had fled : 
My heart's delicious tumult passed away 
And left a sober happiness instead. 
For Ernest's voice was ever in mine ear, 
His presence mingled as of old with mine, 
But stronger, manlier, brighter, more divine 
Its effluence' now : within his starry sphere 
Of love new-risen my nature too was drawn, 
And warmed with rosy flushes of the dawn. 

All day we drove about the lovely vales, 
Under the hill-side farms, through summer wood* 
The land of mingled homes and sc "^ades 
That Ernest loved. We told the dear old tales 
Of childhood, music new tc Edith's ear, 
Sang olden songs, lived old adventures o'er, 
And, when the hours brought need of other cheer 
Spread on the ferny rocks a tempting store 
Of country daintie* 'T was our favorite dell, 



16 



THE POET'S JOURNAL. 



Cut by the trout-stream through a wooded ridge : 

Above, the highway on a mossy bridge 

Strode o'er it, aud below, the water fell 

Through hornblende bowlders, where the dircus flung 

His pliant rods, the berried spice-wood grew, 

And tulip-trees and smooth magnolias hung 

A million leaves between us and the blue. 

The silver water-dust in puffs arose 

And turned to dust of jewels in the sun, 

And like a canon, in its close begun 

Afresh, the stream's perpetual lullaby 

Sang down the dell, and deepened its repose. 

Here, till the western hours had left the sky, 

We sat : then homeward loitered through the dusk 

Of chestnut woods, along the meadow-side, 

And lost in lanes that breathed ambrosial musk 

Of wild-grape blossoms : and the twilight died. 

Long after every star came out,, we paced 
The terrace, still discoursing on the themes 
The day had started, intermixed with dreams 
Born of the summer night. Then, golden-faced, 
Behind her daybreak of auroral gleams, 
The moon arose : the bosom of the lawn 
Whitened beneath her silent snow of light, 
Save where the trees made isles of mystic night, 
Dark blots against the rising splendor drawn, 
And where the eastern wall of woodland towered, 
Blue darkness, filled with undistinguished shapes : 
But elsewhere, over all the landscape showered — 
A silver drizzle on the distant capes 
Of hills — the glory of the moon. We sought, 
Drawn thither by the same unspoken, thought, 
The mound, where now the leaves of laurel clashed 
Their dagger-points of light, around the bower, 
And through the nets of leaf and elfin flower, 
Cold fire, the sprinkled drops of moonshine flashed. 

Erelong in Ernest's hand the volume lay, 
(I did not need a second time to ask,) 
And he resumed the intermitted task. 
1 This night, dear Philip, is the Poet's day," 
He said : " the world is one confessional : 
Our sacred memories as freely fall 
As leaves from o'er-ripe blossoms : we betray 
Ourselves to Nature, who the tale can win 
We shrink from uttering in the daylight's din. 
So, Friend, come back with me a little way 
Along the years, and in these records find 
The sole inscriptions they have left behind." 



ATONEMENT. 

If thou hadst died at midnight, 
With a lamp beside thy bed ; 

The beauty of sleep exchanging 
For the beauty of the dead : 



When the bird of heaven had callet 
thee, 
And the time had come to go, 
And the northern lights were danc 
ing 
On the dim December snow, — 



SYLVAN SPIRITS. 



17 



U thou hadst died at midnight, 
I had ceased to bid thee stay, 

Hearing the feet of the Father 
Leading His child away. 

I had knelt, in the awful Presence, 
And covered my guilty head, 

And received His absolution 
For my sins toward the dead. 

But the cruel sun was shining 

In the cold and windy sky, 
And Life, with his mocking voices, 

Looked in to see thee die. 

Grod came and went unheeded ; 

No tear repentant shone ; 
And he took the heart from my bosom, 

And left in its place a stone. 

Each trivial promise broken, 

Each tender word unsaid, 
Must be evermore unspoken, — 

Unpardoned by the dead. 

Unpardoned ? No : the struggle 
Of years was not in vain, — 

The patience that wearies passion, 
And the prayers that conquer pain. 

This tardy resignation 

May be the blessed sign 
Of pardon and atonement, 

Thy spirit sends to mine. 

Now first I dare remember 
That day of death and woe : 

Within, the dreadful silence, 
Without, the sun and snow ! 



DECEMBER. 

The beech is bare, and bare the ash, 

The thickets white below ; 
The fir-tree scowls with hoar moustache, 

He cannot sing for snow. 

The body-guard of veteran pines, 

A grim battalion, stands ; 
They ground their arms, in ordered 
lines, 

For Winter so commands. 

The waves are dumb along the shore 

The river's pulse is still ; 
The north-wind's bugle blows no more 
Reveille' from the hill. 
2 



The rustling sift of falling snow, 
The muffled crush of \eaves, 

These are the sounds suppressed, that 
show 
How much the forest grieves ; 

But, as the blind and vacant Day 

Crawls to his ashy bed, 
I hear dull echoes far away, 

Like drums above the dead. 

Sigh with me, Pine that never changed 1 
Thou wear'st the Summer's hue ; 

Her other loves are all estranged, 
But thou and I are true ! 



SYLVAN SPIRITS. 

The gray stems rise, the branches braid 
A covering of deepest shade. 
Beneath these old, inviolate trees 
There comes no stealthy, sliding breeze, 
To overhear their mysteries. 

Steeped in the fragrant breath of leaves, 
My heart a hermit peace receives : 
The sombre forest thrusts a screen 
My refuge and the world between, 
And beds me in its balmy green. 

No fret of life may here intrude, 
To vex the sylvan solitude. 
Pure spirits of the earth and air, 
From hollow trunk and bosky lair 
Come forth, and hear your lover's 
prayer ! 

Come, Druid soul of ancient oak, 
Thou, too, hast felt the thunder-stroke ; 
Come, Hamadryad of the beech, 
Nymph of the burning maple, teach 
My heart the solace of your speech ! 

Alas ! the sylvan ghosts preserve 
The natures of the race they serve. 
Not only Dryads, chaste and shy, 
But piping Fauns, come dancing nigh, 
And Satyrs of the shaggy thigh. 

Across the calm, the holy hush, 
And shadowed air, there darts a flush 
Of riot, from the lawless brood, 
And rebel voices in my blood 
Salute these orgies of the wood. 

Not sacred thoughts alone engage 
The saint in silent hermitage : 



18 



THE POET S JOURNAL. 



The soul within him heavenward strives, 
Yet strong, as in profaner lives, 
The giant of the flesh survives. 

From Nature, as from human haunts, 
That giant draws his sustenance. 
By her own elves, in woodlands wild 
She sees her robes of prayer defiled : 
She is not purer than her child. 



THE LOST MAY. 

When May, with cowslip-braided locks, 
Walks through the land in green at- 
tire, 
And burns in meadow-grass the phlox 
His torch of purple fire : 

When buds have burst the silver sheath, 
And shifting pink, and gray, and gold 
Steal o'er the woods, while fair be- 
neath 
The bloomy vales unfold : 

When, emerald-bright, the hemlock 
stands 
New-feathered, needled new the pine; 
And, exiles from the orient lands, 
The turbaned tulips shine : 

When wild azaleas deck the knoll, 
And cinque-foil stars the fields of 
home, 
And winds, that take the white-weed, 
roll 
The meadows into foam : 

Then from the jubilee I turn 

To other Mays that I have seen, 
Where more resplendent blossoms burn, 
And statelier woods are green ; — 

Mays, when my heart expanded first, 

A honeyed blossom, fresh with dew ; 
And one sweet wind of heaven dispersed 
The only clouds I knew. 

For she, whose softly-murmured name 

The music of the month expressed, 
Walked by my side, in holy shame 
Of girlish love confessed. 

The budding chestnuts overhead, 
Their sprinkled shadows in the 
lane, — 
Biue flowers along the brooklet's bed, — 
I see them all again ! 



The old, old tale of girl and boy, 

Repeated ever, never old : 
To each in turn the gates of joy, 
The gates of heaven unfold. 

And when the punctual May arrives, 
With cowslip-garland on her brow, 
We know what once she give our live* 
And cannot give us now = 



CHURCHYARD ROSES. 

The woodlands wore a gloomy green, 
The tawny stubble clad the hill, 

And August hung her smoky screen 
Above the valleys, hot and still. 

No' life was in the fields that day ; 

My steps were safe from curious eyes 
I wandered where, in churchyard clay, 

The dust of love and beauty lies. 

Around me thrust the nameless graves 
Their fatal ridges, side by side, 

So green, they seemed but grassy waves 
Yet quiet as the dead they hide. 

And o'er each pillow of repose 
Some innocent memento grew, 

Of pansy, pink, or lowly rose, 
Or hyssop, lavender, and rue. 

What flower is hers, the maiden I ride ? 

What sacred plant protects her bed ? 
I saw, the greenest mound beside, 

A rose of dark and lurid red. 

An eye of fierce demoniac stain, 

It mocked my calm and chastened 
grief ; 

I tore it, stung with sudden pain, 
And stamped in earth each bloody l«if 

And down upon that trampled grave 
In recklessness my body cast : 

" Give back the life I could not save, 
Or give deliverance from the Past ! " 

But something gently touched my cheek 
Caressing while its touch reproved : 

A rose, all white and snowy-meek, 
It grew upon the dust I loved ! 

A breeze the holy blossom pressed 
Upon my lips : dear Saint, I cried, 

Still blooms the white rose, in my breast 
Of Love, that Death has sanctified ! 



YOUNG LOVE. 



19 



AUTUMNAL DREAMS. 



fVHEN the maple turns to crimson 
And the sassafras to gold ; 

When the gentian 's in the meadow, 
And the aster on the wold ; 

When the noon is lapped in vapor, 
And the night is frosty-cold : 



When the chestnut-burs are opened, 
And the acorns drop like hail, 

And the drowsy air is startled 
With the thumping of the flail, — 

With the drumming of the partridge 
And the whistle of the quail : 



Through the rustling woods I wan- 
der, 

Through the jewels of the year, 
From the yellow uplands calling, 

Seeking her that still is dear : 
She is near me in the autumn, 

She, the beautiful, is near. 



Through the smoke of burning sum- 
mer, 

When the weary winds are still, 
I can see her in the valley, 

I can hear her on the hill, — 
in the splendor of the woodlands, 

In the whisper of the rill. 



; \jx the shores of Earth and Heaven 
Meet, and mingle in the blue : 

She can wander down the glory 
To the places that she knew, 

Where the happy lovers wandered 
In the days when life was true. 



Bo I think, when days are sweetest, 
And the world is wholly fair, 

She may sometime steal upon me 
Through the dimness of the air, 

With the cross upon her bosom 
And the am aranth in her hair. 



VII. 

Once to meet her, ah ! to meet her, 

And to hold her gently fast 
Till I blessed her, till she blessed me,— 

That were happiness, at last : 
That were bliss beyond our meetings 

In the autumns of the Past ! 



IN WINTER. 

The valley stream is frozen, 
The hills are cold and bare, 

And the wild white bees of winter 
Swarm in the darkened air. 

I look on the naked forest : 
Was it ever green in June 1 

Did it burn with gold and crimson 
In the dim autumnal noon ? 

I look on the barren meadow : 
Was it ever heaped with hay ? 

Did it hide the grassy cottage 

Where the skylark's children lay ? 

I look on the desolate garden : 
Is it true the rose was there ? 

And the woodbine's musky blossoms, 
And the hyacinth's purple hair 1 

I look on my heart, and marvel 
If Love were ever its own, — 

If the spring of promise brightened, 
And the summer of passion shone ' 

Is the stem of bliss but withered, 
And the root survives the blast ? 

Are the seeds of the Future sleeping 
Under the leaves of the Past ? 

Ah, yes ! for a thousand Aprils 
The frozen germs shall grow, 

And the dews of a thousand summers, 
Wait in the womb of the snow ! 



YOUNG LOVE. 

We are not old, we are not cold, 
Our hearts are warm and tender yet , 

Our arms are eager to enfold 
More bounteous love than we have 
met. 

Still many another heart lays bare 
Its secret chamber to our eyea, 



20 



THE POET'S JOURNAL. 



Though dim with passion's lurid air, 
Or pure as morns of Paradise. 

They give the love, whose glory lifts 
Desii? beyond the realm of sense ; 

They make us rich with lavish gifts, 
The wealth of noble confidence. 

We must be happy, must be proud, 
So crowned with human trust and 
truth ; 

But ah ! the love that first we vowed, 
The dear religion of our youth ! 

Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rare 
The summer to its rose may bring ; 

Far sweeter to the wooing air 
The hidden violet of the spring. 

Still, still that lovely ghost appears, 
Too fair, too pure, to bid depart ; 

No riper love of later years 

Can steal its beauty from the heart. 

splendid sun that shone above ! 

green magnificence of Earth ! 
Born once into that land of love, 

No life can know a second birth. 

Dear, boyish heart, that trembled so 
With bashful fear and fond unrest, — 

More .frightened than a dove, to knoAV 
Another bird within its nest ! 

Sharp thrills of doubt, wild hopes that 
came, 
Fond words addressed, — each word 
a pang : 
Then — hearts, baptized in heavenly 
flame, 
How like the morning stars ye sang ! 

v^ove bound ye with his holiest link, 
The faith in each that ask no more, 

And led ye from the sacred brink 
Of mysteries he held in store. 

i ove led ye, children, from the bowers 
Where Strength and Beauty find his 
crown : 
Ve were not ripe for mortal flowers ; 
God's angel brought an amaranth 
down. 

Our eyes are dim with fruitless tears, 
Uur eyes are dim, our hearts are sore : 

That lost religion of our years 
Comes nevei , never, nevermore ! 



THE CHAPEL. 

Like one who leaves the trampled 
street 
For some cathedral, cool and dim, 
Where he can hear in music beat 
The heart of prayer, that beats for 
him; 

And sees the common light of day, 
Through painted panes, transfigured, 
shine, 

And casts his human woes away, 
In presence of the Woe Divine : 

So I, from life's tormenting themes 
Turn where the silent chapel lies, 

Whose windows burn with vanished 
dreams, 
Whose altar-lights are memories. 

There, watched by pitying cherubim, 
In sacred hush, I rest awhile, 

Till solemn sounds of harp and hymn 
Begin to sweep the haunted aisle : 

A hymn that once but breathed com 

plaint, 

And breathes but resignation now, 

Since God has heard the pleading 

saint, 

And laid His hand upon my brow. 

Restored and comforted, I go 
To grapple with my tasks again ; 

Through silent worship taught to knovr 
The blessed peace that follows pain. 



IE LOVE SHOULD COME AGAIN. 

If Love should come again, I ask my 
heart 
In tender tremors, not unmixed with 
pain, 
Couldst thou be calm, nor feel thine 
ancient smart, 
If Love should cone a^ain ? 

Couldst thou unbar the chambers where 
his nest 
So long was made, and made, alas 
in vain, 
Nor with embarrassed welcome chill thj 
guest, 
If Love should come again ? 



IF LOVE SHOULD COME AGAIN. 



21 



IVould Love his ruined quarters recog- 
nize, 
Where shrouded pictures of the Past 
remain, 
And gently turn them with forgiving 
eyes, 
If Love should come again ? 

Would bliss, in milder type, spring up 
anew, 
As silent craters with the scarlet stain 
01 flowers repeat the lava's ancient hue, 
If Lore should come again ? 



Would Fate, relenting, sheathe the cruel 
blade 
Whereby the angel of thy youth was 
slain, 
That thou might'st all possess him, un- 
afraid, 
If Love should come again ? 

In vain I ask : my heart makes no r»j )j 
But echoes evermore the sweet re 
frain ; 
Till, trembling lest it seem a wish, I sigh 
If Love should come again . 



The darkness and the twilight have an end," 

Said Ernest, as he laid the "book aside, 

And, with a tenderness he could not hide, 

Smiled, seeing in the eyes of wife and friend 

The same soft dew that made his own so dim. 

My heart was strangely moved, but not for him. 

The holy night, the stars that twinkled faint, 

Serfs of the regnant moon, the slumbering trees 

And silvery hills, recalled fair memories 

Of her I knew, his life's translated saint, 

Who seemed too sacred now, too far removed, 

To be by him lamented or beloved. 

And yet she stood, I knew, by Ernest's side 

Invisible, a glory in the heart, 

A light of peace, the inner counterpart 

Of that which round us poured its radiant tide. 

We sat in silence, till a wind, astray 

From some uneasy planet, shook the vines 

And sprinkled us with snow of eglantines. 

The laurels rustled as it passed away, 

And, million-tongued, the woodland whisper crept 

Of leaves that turned in sleep, from tree to tree 

All down the lawn, and once again they slept. 

Then Edith from her tender fantasy 

Awoke, yet still her pensive posture kept, 

Her white hands motionless upon her knee, 

Her eyes upon a star that sparkled through 

The mesh of leaves, and hummed a wandering ail,. 

(As if the music of her thoughts it were,) 

Low, sweet, and sad, until to words it grew 

That made it sweeter, — words that Ernest knew : 

Love, I follow, follow thee, 
Wipe thine eyes and thou shalt see: 
Sorrow makes thee blind to me. 

I am with thee, blessing, blest; 
Let thy doubts be laid to rest : 
Rise, and take me to thy breast 1 

In thy bliss my steps behold : 
Stretch thine arms and bliss enfold: 
'Tis thy sorrow makes me cold 



22 the poet's journal. 

Life is good, and life is fair, 
Love awaits thee everywhere : 
Love ! is Love's immortal prayer. 

Live for love, and thou shah be, 
Loving others, true to me : 
Love, I follow, follow thee f 

Thus Edith sang : the stars heard, and the night, 
The happy spirits, leaning from the wall 
Of Heaven, the saints, and God above them all, 
Heard what she sang. She ceased : her brow was bright 
With other splendor than the moon's : she rose, 
Gave each a hand, and silently we trod 
The dry, white gravel and the dewy sod, 
And silently we parted for repose. 



THIRD EVENING. 

For days before, the wild-dove cooed for rain. 
The sky had been too bright, the world too fair. 
"We knew such loveliness could not remain : 
We heard its ruin by the flattering air 
Foretold, that o'er the field so sweetly blew, 
Yet came, at night, a banshee, moaning through 
The chimney's throat, and at the window wailed : 
We heard the tree-toad trill his piercing note : 
The sound seemed near us, when, on farms remote, 
The supper-horn the scattered workmen hailed : 
Above the roof the eastward-pointing vane 
Stood fixed : and still the wild-dove cooed for rain. 

So, when the morning came, and found no fire 

Upon her hearth, and wrapped her shivering form 

In cloud, and rising winds in many a gyre 

Of dust foreran the footsteps of the storm, 

And woods grew dark, and flowery meadows chill, 

And gray annihilation smote the hill, 

I said to Ernest : " 'T was my plan, you see : 

Two days to Nature, and the third to me. 

For you must stay, perforce : the day is doomed. 

No visitors shall yonder valley find, 

Except the spirits of the rain and wind : 

Here you must bide, my friends, with me entombed 

In this dim crypt, where shelved around us lie 

The mummied authors." " Place me, when I die," 

Laughed Ernest, " in as fair a catacomb, 

I shall not call posterity unjust, 

That leaves my bones in Shakespeare's, Goethe's hom«, 

Like king and beggar mixed in Memphian dust. 

But you are right : this day we well may give 

To you, dear Philip, and to those who stand 

Protecting Nature with a jealous hand, 

At once her subjects and her haughty lords ; 

Since, in the breath of their immortal words 

Alone, she first begins to speak and live." 



THIRD EVENING. 23 

I km w not, if that day of dreary rain 

Was not the happiest of the happy three. 

For Nature gives, but takes away again : 

Sound, odor, color — blossom, cloud, and tree 

Divide and scatter in a thousand rays 

Our individual being : but, in days 

Of gloom, the wandering senses crowding come 

To the close circle of the heart. So we, 

Cosily nestled in the library, 

Enjoyed each other and the warmth of home. 

Each window was a picture of the rain : 

Blown by the wind, tormented, wet, and gray, 

Losing itself in cloud, the landscape lay ; 

Or wavered, blurred, behind the streaming pane 

Or, with a sudden struggle, shook away 

Its load, and like a foundering ship arose 

Distinct and dark above the driving spray, 

Until a fiercer onset came, to close 

The hopeless day. The roses writhed about 

Their stakes, the tall laburnums to and fro 

Rocked in the gusts, the flowers were beaten low. 

And from his pygmy house the wren looked out 

With dripping bill : eacli living creature fled, 

To seek some sheltering cover for its head : 

Yet colder, drearier, wilder as it blew 

We drew the closer, and tne happier grew. 

She with her needle, he with pipe and book, 
My guests contented sat : my cheerful dame, 
Intent on household duties, went and came, 
And I unto my childless bosom took 
The little two-year Arthur, Ernest's child, 
A darling boy, to both his parents true, — 
With father's brow, and mother's eyes of blue, 
And the same dimpled beauty when he smiled. 
Ah me ! the father's heart within me woke : 
The child that never was, I seemed to hold : 
The withered tenderness that bloomed of old 
In vain, revived when little Arthur spoke 
Of " Papa Philip ! " and his balmy kiss 
Renewed lost yearnings for a father's bliss. 
And something glittered in the boy's bright hair : 
I kissed him back, but turned away my head 
To hide the pang I would not have thee share, 
Dear wife ! from whom the dearest promise fled. 
God cannot chide so sacred a despair, 
But still I dream tbat somewhere there must be 
The spirit of a child that waits for me. 

And evening fell, and Arthur, rosy-limbed 
And snowy-gowned, in human beauty sweet, 
Came pattering up with little naked feet 
To kiss the good-night cup, that overbrimmed 
With love two fathers and two mothers gave. 
The steady rain against the windows drave, 
And round the house the noises of the night 
Mixed in a lulling music : dry old wood 
Burned on the hearth in leaps of ruddy light, 



24 



THE POET S JOURNAL. 



And on the table purple beakers stood 

Of harmless wine, from grapes that ripened on 

The sunniest hillsides of the smooth Garonne. 

When Arthur slept, and doors were closed, and we 

Sat folded in a sweeter privacy 

Than even the secret-loving moon bestows, 

Spoke Ernest : " Edith, shall I read the rest ? " 

She, while the spirit of a happy rose 

Visited her cheeks, consenting smiled, and pressed 

The hand he gave. " With what I now shall read 

He added, " Philip, you must be content. 

No further runs my journal, nor, indeed, 

Beyond this chapter is there further need ; 

Because the gift of Song was chiefly lent 

To give consoling music for the joys 

We lack, and not for those which we possess : 

I now no longer need that gift, to bless 

My heart, — your heart, my Edith, and your boy's ! " 

Therewith he read : the fingers of the rain 
In light staccatos on the window played, 
Mixed with the flame's contented hum, and made 
Low harmonies to suit the varied strain. 



THE RETURN OF SPRING. 

Have I passed through Death's uncon- 
scious birth, 

In a dream the midnight bare 1 
I look on another and fairer Earth : 

I breathe a wondrous air ! 

A spirit of beauty walks the hills, 

A spirit of love the plain ; 
The shadows are bright, and the sun- 
shine fills 

The air with a diamond rain ! 

Before my vision the glories swim, 
To the dance of a tune unheard : 

Is ^in angel singing where woods are 
dim, 
Or is it an amorous bird 1 

Is it a spike of azure flowers, 

Deep in the meadows seen, 
Or is it the peacock's neck, that towers 

Out of the spangled green ? 

b a white dove glancing across the blue, 

Or an opal taking wing 1 
For my soul is dazzled through and 
through, 

With the splendor of the Spring. 

Is it she that shines, as never before, 
The tremulous hills above, — 



Or the heart within me, awake once mort 
To the dawning light of love 1 

MORNING. 

Along the east, where late the dark 
impended, 

A dusky gleam is born : 
The watches of the night are ended, 

And heaven foretells the morn ! 

The hills of home, no longer hurled to- 
gether, 

In one wide blotch of night, 
Lift up their heads through misty eth-r. 

Distinct in rising light. 

Then, after pangs of darkness slowly 
dying, 

O'er the delivered world 
Comes Morn, with every banner flying 

And every sail unfurled ! 

So long the night, so chill, so blank anc 1 
dreary, 

I thought the sun was dead ; 
But yonder burn his beacons cheery 

On peaks of cloudy red : 

And ycnder fly his scattered golden ar 
rows, 
And smite the hills with day, 



LOVE KETUENED. 



25 



While Night her vain dominion narrows 
And westward wheels away. 

A sweeter air revives the new creation, 
The dews are tears of bliss, 

And Earth, in amorous palpitation, 
Receives her bridegroom's kiss. 

Bathed it the morning, let my heart 
surrender 
The doubts that darkness gave, 
And rise to meet the advancing splen- 
dor — 
O Night ! no more thy slave. 

I breathe at last, thy gloomy reign for- 
getting, 

Thy weary watches done, 
Thy last pale star behind me setting, 

The freedom of the sun ! 



THE VISION. 



She came, long absent from my side, 
And absent from my dreams, she 
came, 

The earthly and the heavenly bride, 

In maiden beauty glorified : 

She looked upon me, angel-eyed : 
She called me by my name. 



But I, whose heart to meet her sprang 
And shook the fragile house of 
dreams, 
Stood, smitten with a guilty pang : 
In other groves and temples rang 
The songs that once for her I sang, 
By woods and faery streams. 



in. 

Her eyes had power to lift my head, 

And, timorous as a truant "child, 
I met the sacred light they shed, 
The light of heaven around her spread 
She read my face ; no word she said : 
I only saw she smiled. 



* Canst thou forgive me, Angel mine," 
I cried ; " that Love at last beguiled 
My heart to build a second shrine ? 



See, still I kneel and weep at thine, 
But I am human, thou divine ! " 
Still silently she smiled. 



" Dost undivided worship claim, 
To keep thine altar undefiled 1 
Or must I bear thy tender blame, 
And in thy pardon feel my shame 
Whene'er I breathe another name 
She looked at me, and smiled. 



" Speak, speak ! " and then my tears 
came fast, 
My troubled heart with doubt grew 
wild : 
" Will 't vex the love, which still tho« 

hast, 
To know that I have peace at last % " 
And from my dream the vision passed, 
And still, in passing, smiled. 



LOVE RETURNED. 



He was a boy when first we met ; 

His eyes were mixed of dew and fire, 
And on his candid brow was set 

The sweetness of a chaste desire . 
But in his veins the pulses beat 

Of passion, waiting for its wing, 
As ardent veins of summer heat 

Throb through the innocence of 
spring. 



As manhood came, his stature grew, 

And fiercer burned his restless eyes, 
Until I trembled, as he drew 

From wedded hearts their young dis- 
guise. 
Like wind-fed flame his ardor rose, 

And brought, like flame, a storm v 
rain : 
In tumult, sweeter than repose, 

He tossed the souls of joy and pain 



So many years of absence change ! 

1 knew him not when he returned : 
Hi& step was slow, his brow was stranga 

His quiet eye no longer burned. 



'26 



THE POET'S JOURNAL. 



When at my heart I heard his knock, 
No voice within his right confessed : 

I could not venture to unlock 
Its chambers to an alien guest. 



Then, at the threshold, spent and worn 

With fruitless travel, down he lay : 
And I beheld the gleams of morn 

On his reviving beauty play. 
I knelt, and kissed his holy lips, 

I washed his feet with pious care ; 
And from my life the long eclipse 

Drew off, and left his sunshine there. 



He burns no more with youthful fire ; 

He melts no n* ore in foolish tears ; 
Serene and sweet, his eves inspire 

The steady faith of balanced years. 
His folded wings no longer thrill, 

But in some peaceful flight of prayer : 
He nestles in my heart so still, 

I scarcely feel bis presence there. 

VI. 

Love, that stern probation o'er, 

Thy calmer blessing is secure ! 
Thy beauteous feet shall stray no more, 

Thy peace and patience shall endure ! 
Tbe lightest wind deflowers the rose, 

The rainbow with the sun departs, 
But thou art centred in repose, 

And rooted in my heart of hearts ! 



A WOMAN. 



She is a woman : therefore, I a man, 
In so much as I love her. Could I 

more, 
7?hen I were more a man. Our natures 

ran 
Together, brimming full, not flooding 

o'er 
The banks ;f life, and evermore will run 
In one full stream until our days are 

done. 

ii. 

She is a woman, but of spirit H-ave 
To bear the loss of girlhood's giddy 
dreams ; 



The regal mistress, not the yielding slave 
Of her ideal, spurning that which 

seems 
For that which is, and, as her fancies 

fall, 
Smiling : the truth of love outweighs 

them all. 



She looks through life, and with a 
balance just 
"Weighs men and things, beholding as 
they are 
The lives of others : in the common 
dust 
She finds the fragments of the ruined 
star : 
Proud, with a pride all feminine and 

' sweet, 
No path can soil the whiteness of her 
feet. 



The steady candor of her gentle eyes 
Strikes dead deceit, laughs vanity 
away ; 
She hath no room for petty jealousies, 
Where Faith and Love divide their 
tender sway. 
Of either sex she owns the nobler part : 
Man's honest brow and woman's faithful 
heart. 



She is a woman, who, if Love were guide, 
Would climb to power, or in obscure 
content 

Sit down : accepting fate with change- 
less pride — 
A reed in calm, in storm a staff un- 
bent: 

No pretty plaything, ignorant of life, 

But Man's true mother, and his equal 
wife. 



THE COUNT OF GLEICHEN. 

I read that story of the Saxon knight, 
Who, leaving "spouse and feudal for 
tre^s, made 
The Cross of Christ his guerdon in the 
fight, 
And joined the last Crusade. 

Whom, in the chase on Damietta's sands 
Estrayed, the Saracens in ambush 
caught, 



POSSESSION. 



27 



A.nd unto Cairo, to the Soldan's hands, 
A wretched captive brought : 

Whom then the Soldan's child, a damsel 
brave, 
Saw, pitied, comforted, and made him 
free. 
And with him flew, herself a willing 
slave 
In Love's captivity. 

I read how he to bless her love was 
fain, 

To whom his renovated life he owed, 
Yet with a pang the towers beheld again 

Where still his wife abode : 

The wife whom first he loved : would 
she not scorn 
The second bride he could not choose 
but wed, 
The second mother to his children, born 
In her divided bed i 

Lo ! at his castle's foot the noble dame 
With tears of blessing, holv, unde- 
filed 
By human pain, received him when he 
came, 
And kissed the Soldan's child ! 

My tears were on the pages as I read 
The touching close : I made the story 
mine, 
Within whose heart, long plighted to 
the dead, 
Love built his living shrine. 

I too had dared, a captive in the land, 
To pay with love the love that broke 
my chain : 
Would she, who waited, stretch the 
pardoning hand, 
When I returned again ? 

Would she, my freedom and my bliss to 
know, 
With my disloyalty be reconciled, 
&nd from her bower in Eden look be- 
low, 
And bless the Soldan's child ? 

For she is lost : but she, the later bride, 
Who came my ruined fortune to re- 
store, 
$ack from the desert wanders at my 
side, 
And leads me home once more. 



If human love, she sighs, could move a 
wife 

The holiest sacrifice of love to make, 
Then the transfigured angel of thy life 

Is happier for thy sake ! 



BEFORE THE BRIDAL. 

Now the night is overpast, 
And the mist is cleared away : 

On my barren life at last 
Breaks the bright, reluctant day. 

Day of payment for the wrong 
1 was doomed so long to bear ; 

Day of promise, day of song, 
Day that makes the future fair ! 

Let me wake to bliss alone : 

Let me bury every fear : 
What I prayed for, is my own ; 

What was distant, now is near. 

For the happy hour that waits 
No reproachful shade shall bring, 

And I hear forgiving Fates 
In the happy bells that ring. 

Leave the song that now is mute, 
For the sweeter song begun : 

Leave the blossom for the fruit, 
And the rainbow for the sun ! 



POSSESSION. 



" It was our wedding-day 

A month ago," dear heart, I bear yon 

say. 
If months, or years, or ages since ha^e 



I know not : I have ceased to question 

Time. 
I only know that once there pealed a 

chime 
Of joyous bells, and then I held you 

fast, 
And all stood back, and none my right 

denied, 
And forth we walked : the world was 

free and wide 
Before us. Since that day 
I count my life : the Past is washed 

away. 



28 



THE POET S JOURNAL. 



It was no dream, that vow : 

It was the voice that woke me from a 
dream, — 

A happy dream, I think ; but I am 
waking now, 

And drink the splendor of a sun su- 
preme 

That turns the mist of former tears to 
gold. 

Within these arms I hold 

The fleeting promise, chased so long in 
vain : 

Ah, weary bird ! thou wilt not fly again : 

Thy wings are clipped, thou canst no 
more depart, — 

Thy nest is builded in my heart ! 



I was the crescent ; thou 
The silver phantom of the perfect sphere, 
Held in its bosom : in one glory now 
Our lives united shine, and many a 

year — 
Not the sweet moon of bridal only — we 
One lustre, ever at the full, shall be : 
One pure and rounded light, one planet 

whole, 
One life developed, one completed soul ! 
For I in thee, and thou in me, 
Unite our cloven halves of destiny. 



God knew His chosen time : 

He bade me slowly ripen to my prime, 

And from my boughs withheld the 

promised fruit, 
Till storm and sun gave vigor to the root. 
Secure, Love ! secure 
Thy blessing is : I have thee day and 

night : 
Thou art become my blood, my life, my 

light: 
God's mercy thou, and therefore shalt 

endure ! 



UNDER THE MOON. 

i. 

From you and home I sleep afar, 
Under "the light of a lonely star, 
Under the moon that marvels why 
Away from you and home I lie. 



Ah ! love no language can declare, 
The hovering warmth, the tender care, 
The yielding, sweet, invisible air 
That clasps your bosom, and fans youi 

cheek 
With the breath of words I cannot 



Such love I give, such warmth im- 
part : 
The fragrance of a blossomed heart. 



The moon looks in upon my bed, 
Her yearning glory rays my head, 
And round me clings, a lonely light, 
The aureole of the winter night ; 
But in my heart a gentle pain, 
A balmier splendor in my brain, 
Lead me beyond the frosty plane, — 
Lead me afar, to mellower skies, 
Where under the moon a palace lies ; 
Where under the moon our bed is made, 
Half in splendor and half in shade. 



The marble flags of the corridor 
Through open windows meet the floor, 
And Moorish arches in darkness rise 
Against the gleam of the silver skies : 
Beyond, in flakes of starry light, 
A fountain prattles to the night, 
And dusky cypresses, withdrawn 
In silent conclave, stud the lawn ; 
While mystic woodlands, more remote, 
In seas of airy silver float, 
So hung in heaven, the stars that set 
Seem glossy leaves the dew has wet 
On topmost boughs, and sparkling yet. 



In from the terraced garden blows 

The spicy soul of the tuberose, 

As if 't were the odor of strains that 

pour 
From the nightingale's throat as naver 

before ; 
For he sings not now of wounding 

thorn, 
He sings as the ♦ lark in the golde* 

morn, — 
A song of joy, a song of bliss, 
Passionate notes that clasp and kiss, 
Perfect peace and perfect pride, 
Love rewarded and satisfied, 
For I see you, darling, at my side. 



THE FATHER. 



29 



[ see you, darling, at my side : 
I clasp you closer, in sacred pride. 
I shut my eyes, my senses fail, 
Becalmed by Night's ambrosial gale. 
Softer than dews the planets weep, 
Descends a sweeter peace than sleep ; 
All wandering sounds and motions die 
In the silent glory of the sky ; 
But, as the moon goes down the West, 
Your heart, against my happy breast, 
Says in its beating : Love is Rest. 



THE MYSTIC SUMMER. 

'T is not the dropping of the flower, 
The blush of fruit upon the tree, 

Though summer ripens, hour by hour, 
The garden's sweet maternity : 

'T is not that birds have ceased to build, 
And wait their brood with tender 
care ; 

That corn is golden in the field, 
And clover balm is in the air ; — 

Not these the season's splendor bring, 
And crowd with life the happy year, 

Nor yet, where yonder fountains sing, 
The blaze of sunshine, hot and clear. 

In thy full womb, Summer ! lies 
A secret hope, a joy unsung, 

Held in the hush of these calm skies, 
And trembling on the forest's tongue. 

The lands of harvest throb anew 
In shining pulses, far away ; 

The Night distils a dearer dew, 
And sweeter eyelids has the Day. 

And not in vain the peony burns 
In bursting globes, her crimson fire, 

ler incense-dropping ivory urns 
The lily lifts in many a spire : 

And not in vain the tulips clash 
In revelry the cups they hold 

Of fiery wine, until they dash 
With ruby streaks the splendid gold ! 

Bend down your roots the mystic charm 
That warms and flushes all your 
flowers, 

ind with the summer's touch disarm 
The thraldom of the under powers, 



Until, in caverns, buried deep, 

Strange fragrance reach the dia 
mond's home, 

And murmurs of the garden sweep 
The houses of the frighted guome 1 

For, piercing through their black re- 
pose, 

And shooting up beyond the sun, 
I see that Tree of Life, which rose 

Before the eyes of Solomon : 

Its boughs, that, in the light of God, 
Their bright, innumerous leaves dis- 
play, — 

Whose hum of life is borne abroad 
By winds that shake the dead away 

And, trembling on a branch afar, 
The topmost nursling of the skies, 

I see my bud, the fairest star 

The ever dawned for watching eyes. 

Unnoticed on the boundless tree. 
Its fragrant promise fills the air ; 

Its little bell expands, for me, 
A tent of silver, lily-fair. 

All life to that one centre tends ; 

All joy and beauty thence outflow ; 
Her sweetest gifts the summer spends, 

To teach that sweeter bud to blow. 

So, compassed by the vision's gleam, 
In trembling hope, from day to day, 

As in some bright, bewildering dream, 
The mystic summer wanes away. 



THE FATHER. 

The fateful hour, when Death stood 

And stretched his threatening hand in 
vain, 
Is over now, and Life's first cry 

Speaks feeble triumph through iti 
pain. 

But yesterday, and thee the Earth 
Inscribed not en her mighty scroll : 

To-day she opes the gate of birth, 
And gives the spheres another soul. 

But yesterday, no fruit from me 

The rising winds of Time had hurled 

To-day, a father, — can it be 
A child of mine is in the world ? 



30 



THE POET S JOURNAL. 



I look upon the kittle frame, 
As helpless on my arm it lies : 

Thou giv'st me, child, a father's name, 
God's earliest name in Paradise. 

Like Him, creator too I stand : 
His Power and Mystery seem more 
near ; 

Thou giv'st me honor in the land, 
And giv'st my life duration here. 

But love, to-day, is more than pride ; 

Love sees his star of triumph shine, 
For Life nor Death can now divide 

The souls that wedded breathe in 
thine : 

Mine and thy mother's, whence arose 
The copy of my face in thee ; 

And as thine eyelids first unclose, 
My own young eyes look up to me. 

Look on me, child, once more, once more, 
Even with those weak, unconscious 
eyes : 
Stretch the small hands that help im- 
plore ; 
Salute me with thy wailing cries ! 

This is the blessing and the prayer 
A father's sacred place demands : 

Ordain me, darling, for thy care, 
And lead me with thy helpless hands ! 



THE MOTHER. 

Paler, and yet a thousand times more 
fair 
Than in thy girlhood's freshest bloom, 
art thou : 
K softer sun-flush tints thy golden hair, 
A sweeter grace adorns thy gentle 
brow. 



Lips that shall call thee 'mother!" at 
thy breast 

Feed the young life, wherein thy nat- 
ure feels 

Its dear fulfilment : little hands are 
pressed 
On the white fountain Love alone 
unseals. 

Look down, and let Life's tender day- 
break throw 
A second radiance on thy ripened 
hour : 
Retrace thine own forgotten advent 
so, 
And in the bud behold thy perfect 
flower. 

Nay, question not : whatever lies be- 
yond 
God will dispose. Sit thus, Madonna 
mine, 
For thou art haloed with a love as 
fond 
As Jewish Mary gave the Child Di- 
vine. 

I lay my own proud title at thy feet ; 
Thine the first, holiest right to love 
shalt be : 
Though in his heart our wedded pulses 
beat, 
His sweetest life our darling draws 
from thee. 

The father in 'his child beholds this 
truth, 
His perfect manhood has assumed its 
reign : 
Thou wear'st anew the roses of thy 
youth, — 
The mother in h«r child is bore 
again. 



Thus came the Poet's Journal to an end. 
His heart's completed music ceased to flow 
From Ernest's lips : the tale I wished to know 
Was wholly mine. " I am content, dear friend," 
I said : " to me no voice can be obscure 
Wherein your nature speaks : the chords I hear, 
Too far and frail to strike a stranger's ear." 
With that, I bowed to Edith's forehead pure, 
And kissed her with a brother's blameless kiss : 
To you the fortune of these days I owe, 
My* other Ernest, like him most in this, 
That you can hear the cries of ancient woe 



THIED EVENING. 31 

With holy pity free from any blame 

Of jealous love, and find your highest bliss 

To know, through you his life's fulfilment came." 

* And through him, mine," the woman's heart replied ' 
For Love's humility is Love's true pride. 

''These are your sweetest poems, and your best," 
To him I said. " I know not," answered he, 
They are my truest. I have ceased to be 
The ambitious knight of Song, that shook his crest 
In public tilts : the sober hermit I, 
"Whose evening songs but few approach to hear, — 
Who, if those few should cease to lend an ear, 
Would sing them to the forest and the sky 
Contented : singing for myself alone. 
No fear that any poet dies unknown, 
Whose songs are written in the hearts that know 
And love him, though their partial verdict show 
The tenderness that moves the critic's blame. 
Those few have power to lift his name above 
Forgetfulness, to grant that noblest fame 
Which sets its trumpet to the lips of Love ! " 

1 Nay, then," said I, " you are already crowned. 

If your ambition in the loving pride 

Of us, your friends, is cheaply satisfied, 

We are those trumpets : do you hear them sound ? " 

And Edith smilingly together wound 

Light stems of ivy to a garland fair, 

And pressed it archly on her husband's hair ; 

But he, with earnest voice, though in his eyes 

A happy laughter shone, protesting, said : 
* Respect, dear friends, the Muse's sanctities, 

Nor mock, with wreaths upon a living head, 

The holy laurels of the deathless Dead. 

Crown Love, crown Truth when first her brow appears. 

And crown the Hero when his deeds are done : 

The Poet's leaves are gathered one by one, 

In the slow process of the doubtful years. 

Who seeks too eagerly, he shall not find : 

Who, seeking not, pursues with single mind 

Art's lofty aim, to him will she accord, 

At her appointed time, the sure reward." 

The tall clock, standing sentry in the hall, 

Struck midnight : on the panes no longer beat 

The weary storm : the wind began to fall, 

And through the breaking darkness glimmered, sweet 

With tender stars, the flying gleams of sky. 

* Come, Edith, lend your voice to crown the night, 
And give the new day sunny break," said I : 
She listening first in self-deceiving plight 

Of young maternal trouble, for a cry 

From Arthur's crib, sat down in happy calm, 

ADd sang to Ernest's heart his own thanksgiving psalm. 

Thou who sendest sun and rain, 
Thou who spendest bliss and pain, 



32 THE POET'S JOURNAL. 

Good with bounteous hand bestowing, 
Evil for Thy will allowing, — 
Though Thy ways we cannot see, 
All is just that comes from Thee. 

In the peace of hearts at rest, 
In the child at mother's breast, 
In the lives that now surround us, 
In the deaths that sorely wound us, 
Though we may not understand, 
Father, we behold Thy hand! 

Hear the happy hymn we raise ; 
Take the love which is Thy praise ; 
Give content in each condition ; 
Bend our hearts in sweet submission. 
And Thy trusting children prove 
Worthy of the Father' i feee ! 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



Da der West war durchgekostet, 
Hat er nun den Ost entmostet. 

RUCKEBT. 



PROEM DEDICATORY. 



AN EPISTLE FROM MOUNT TMOLUS. 

TO RICHARD HENRT STODDARD. 
I. 

O Friend, were you but couched on Tmolus' side, 
In the warm myrtles, in the golden air 
Of the declining day, which half lays bare, 

Half drapes, the silent mountains and the wide 

Embosomed vale, that wanders to the sea ; 
And the far sea, with doubtful specks of sail, 

And farthest isles, that slumber tranquilly 
Beneath the Ionian autumn's violet veil ; — 

Were you but with me, little were the need 
Of this imperfect artifice of rhyme, 
Where the strong Fancy peals a broken chime 

And the ripe brain but sheds abortive seed. 

But I am solitary, and the curse, 

Or blessing, which has clung to me from birth — » 

The torment and the ecstasy of verse — 
Comes up to me from the illustrious earth 

Of ancient Tmolus ; and the very stones, 

Reverberant, din the mellow air with tones 

Which the sweet air remembers ; and they blend 
With fainter echoes, which the mountains fling 

From far oracular caverns : so, my Friend, 
I cannot choose but sing ! 



Unto mine eye, less plain the shepherds be, 

Tending their browsing goats amid the broom, 
Or the slow camels, travelling towards the sea, 

Laden with bales from Baghdad's gaudy loom, 
Or yon nomadic Turcomans, that go 

Down from their summer pastures — than the twais 
Immortals, who on Tmolus' thymy top 

Sang, emulous, the rival strain ! 
Down the charmed air did light Apollo drop ; 
Great Pan ascended from the vales below. 
I see them sitting in the silent glow ; 
I hear the alternating measures flow 



16 POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 

From pipe and golden lyre ; — the melody 

Heard by the Gods between their nectar bowls, 
Or when, from out the chambers of the ->ea, 

Comes the triumphant Morning, and unrolls 
A pathway for the sun ; then, following swift, 

The daedal harmonies of awful caves 
Cleft in the hills, and forests that uplift 

Their sea-like boom, in answer to the waves, 
With many a lighter strain, that dances o'er 
The wedded reeds, till Echo strives in vain 
To follow : 
Hark ! once more, 
How floats the God's exultant strain 
In answer to Apollo ! 

" The wind in the reeds and the rushes, 
The bees on the bells of thyme, 
The birds on the myrtle bushes, 
The cicale above in the lime, 
And the lizards below in the grass 
Are as silent as ever old Tmolus was, 
Listening to my sweet pipings." 



in. 

I cannot separate the minstrels' worth ; 
Each is alike transcendent and divine. 

What were the Day, unless it lighted Earth ? 

And what were Earth, should Day forget to shine ! 

But were you here, my Friend, we twain would build 
Two altars, on the mountain's sunward side : 
There Pan should o'er my sacrifice preside, 

And there Apollo your oblation gild. 

He is your God, but mine is shaggy Pan ; 
Yet, as their music no discordance made, 
So shall our offerings side by side be laid, 

And the same wind the rival incense fan. 



IV. 

You strain your ear to catch the harmonies 

That in some finer region have their birth ; 
I turn, despairing, from the quest of these, 

And seek to learn tha native tongue of Earth. 
In " Fancy's tropic clime " your castle stands, 

A shining miracle of rarest art ; 
I pitch my tent upon the naked sands, 
And the tall palm, that plumes the orient lands, 

Can with its beauty satisfy my heart. 
You, in your starry trances, breathe the air 

Of lost Elysium, pluck the snowy bells 

Of lotus and Olympian asphodels, 
And bid us their diviner odors share. 
I at the threshold of that world have lain, 

Gazed on its glory heard the grand acclaim 

Wherewith its trumpets hail the sons of Fame, 
And striven its speech to master — but in vain. 



A P^AN TO THE DAWN. 



37 



And now I turn, to find a late content 

In Nature, making mine her myriad shows ; 

Better contented with one living rose 
Than all the Gods' ambrosia ; sternly bent 
On wresting from her hand the cup, whence flow 

The flavors of her ruddiest life — the change 

Of climes and races — the unshackled range 
Of all experience ; — that my songs may show 
The warm red blood that beats in hearts of men, 
And those who read them in the festering den 

Of cities, may behold the open sky, 
And hear the rhythm of the winds that blow, 

Instinct with Freedom. Blame me not, that I 
Find in the forms of Earth a deeper joy 
Than in the dreams which lured me as a boy, 
And leave the Heavens, where you are wandering still 

With bright Apollo, to converse with Pan ; 

For, though- full soon our courses separate ran, 
We, like the Gods, can meet on Tmolus' hill. 



v. 

There is no jealous rivalry in Song : 

I see your altar on the hill-top shine, 

And mine is built in shadows of the Pine, 
Yet the same worships unto each belong. 
Different the Gods, yet one the sacred awe 

Their presence brings us, one the reverent heart 
Wherewith we honor the immortal law 

Of that high inspiration, which is Art. 
Take, therefore, Friend ! these Voices of the Earth, 

The rhythmic records of my life's career, 
Humble, perhaps, yet wanting not the worth 

Of Truth, and to the heart of Nature near. 
Take them, and your acceptance, in the dearth 

Of the world's tardy praise, shall make them dear. 



A P^EAN TO THE DAWN. 



The dusky sky fades into blue, 

And bluer waters bind us ; 
The stars are glimmering faint and few, 

The night is left behind us ! 
Turn not where sinks the sullen dark 

Before the signs of warning, 
But crowd the canvas on our bark 

And sail to meet the morning. 
Rejoice ! rejoice ! the hues that fill 

The orient, flush and lighten ; 
And over the blue Ionian hill 

The Dawn begins to brighten ! 



We leave the Night, that weighed so long 
Upon the soul's endeavor, 



For Morning, on these hills of Song, 

Has made her home forever. 
Hark to the sound of trump and lyre, 

In the olive-groves before us, 
And the rhythmic beat, the pulse of fire 

Throbs in the full-voice chorus ! 
More than Memnonian grandeur speakj 

In the triumph of the psean, 
And all the glory of the Greeks 

Breathes o'er the old JEgean. 



Here shall the ancient Dawn return, 

That lit the earliest poet, 
Whose very ashes in his urn 

Would radiate glory through it, — 
The dawn of Life, when Life was Song, 

And Song the life of Nature, 
And the Singer stood amid the throngr- 

A God in every feature ! 



38 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



When Love was free, and free as air 
The utterance of Passion, 

And the heart in every fold lay bare. 
Nor shamed its true expression. 



Then perfect limb and perfect face 

Surpassed our best ideal ; 
Unconscious Nature's law was grace, — 

The Beautiful was real. 
For men acknowledged true desires, 

And light as garlands wore them ; 
They were begot by vigorous sires, 

And noble mothers bore them. 
Oh, when the shapes of Art they planned 

Were living forms of passion, 
Impulse and Deed went hand in hand, 

And Life was more than Fashion ! 



The seeds of Song they scattered first 

Flower in all later pages ; 
Their forms have woke the Artist's 
thirst 

Through the succeeding ages : 
But I will seek the fountain-head 

Whence flowed their inspiration, 
And lead the unshackled life they led, 

Accordant with Creation. 
The World's false life, that follows 
still, 

Has ceased its chain to tighten, 
And over the blue Ionian hill 

I see the sunrise brighten ! 



THE POET IN THE EAST. 

The Poet came to the Land of the 
East, 
When spring was in the air : 
The Earth was dressed for a wedding 
feast, 
So young she seemed, and fair ; 
And the Poet knew the Land of the 
East, — 
His soul was native there. 

All things to him were the visible forms 
Of early and precious dreams, — 

Familiar visions that mocked his quest 
Beside the Western streams, 

Or gleamed in the gold of the clouds, 
unrolled 
In the sunset's dying beams. 



He looked above in the cloudless calm, 
And the Sun sat on his throne ; 

The breath of gardens, deep in balm, 
Was all about him blown, 

And a brother to him was the princely 
Palm, 
For he cannot live alone. 

His feet went forth on the myrtled hills, 
And the flowers their welcome shed ; 

The meads of milk-white asphodel 
They knew the Poet's tread, 

And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, 
The poppy's bonfire spread. 

And, half in shade and half in sun, 

The Rose sat in her bower, 
With a passionate thrill in her crimson 
heart — 

She had waited for the hour ! 
And, like a bride's, the Poet kissed 

The lips of the glorious flower. 

Then the Nightingale, who sat above 
In the boughs of the citron-tree, 

Sang : We are no rivals, brother mine, 
Except in minstrelsy ; 

For the rose you kissed with the kiss of 
love, 
She is faithful still to me. 

And further sang the Nightingale : 
Your bower not distant lies. 

I heard the sound of a Persian lute 
From the jasmined window rise, 

And, twin-bright stars, through the lat- 
tice-bars, 
I saw the Sultana's eyes. 

The Poet said: I will here abide, 
In the Sun's unclouded door ; 

Here are the wells of all delight 
On the lost Arcadian shore : 

Here is the light on sea and land, 
And the dream deceives no more. 

THE TEMPTATION OF HASSAN 
BEN KHALED. 



Hassan Ben Khaled, singing in the 

streets 
Of Cairo, sang these verses at my door : 
"Blessed is he, who God and Prophet 

greets 
Each morn with prayer ; but he is bleat 

much more 



THE TEMPTATION OF HASSAN BEN KHALED. 



39 



Whoee conduct is his prayer's inter- 
preter. 

Sweeter than musk, and pleasanter than 
myrrh, 

Richer than rubies, shall his portion be, 

When God bids Azrael, 'Bring him 
unto me ! ' 

But woe to him whose life casts dirt 
upon 

The Prophet's word ! "When all his 
days are done, 

Him shall the Evil Angel trample down 

Out of the sight of God." Thus, with 
a frown 

Of the severest virtue, Hassan sang 

Unto the people, till the markets rang. 



But two days after this, he came again 
And sang, and I remarked an altered 

strain. 
Before my shop he stood, with forehead 

bent 
Like one whose sin hath made him 

penitent, — 
In whom the pride, that like a stately 

reed 
Lifted his head, is broken. "Blest in- 
deed," 
(These were his words,) "is he who 

never fell, 
But blest much more, who from the 

verge of Hell 
Climbs up to Paradise : for Sin is sweet ; 
Strong is Temptation ; willing are the 

feet 
That follow Pleasure, manifold her 

snares, 
And pitfalls lurk beneath our very 

prayers : 
Yet God, the Clement, the Compas- 
sionate, 
In pity of our weakness keeps the gate 
Of Pardon open, scorning not to wait 
Till the last moment, when His mercy 

flings 
Splendor from the shade of Azrael's 

wings." 
" Wherefore, Poet ! " I to Hassan said, 
" This altered measure ? Wherefore 

hang your head, 
Hassan ! whom the pride of virtue 

gives 
The right to face the holiest man that 

lives ? 
Enter, I pray thee : this poor house will 



Honored henceforth, if it may shelter 
thee." 

Hassan Ben Khaled lifted up his eyes 

To mine, a moment : then, in cheerful 
guise, 

He passed my threshold with un slip- 
pered feet. 



I led him from the noises of the street 
To the cool inner chambers, where ray 

slave 
Poured out the pitcher's rosy-scented 

wave 
Over his hands, and laid upon his knee 
The napkin, silver-fringed : and when 

the pipe 
Exhaled a grateful odor from the ripe 
Latakian leaves, said Hassan unto me : 
" Listen, O Man ! no man can truly say 
That he hath wisdom. What I sang 

to-day 
Was not less truth than what I sang be- 
fore, 
But to Truth's house there is a single 

door, 
Which is Experience. He teaches best, 
Who feels the hearts of all men in his 

breast, 
And knows their strength or weakness 

through his own. 
The holy pride, that never was o'er- 

thrown, 
Was never tempted, and its words of 

blame 
Reach but the dull ears of the multi- 
tude : 
The admonitions, fruitful unto good, 
Come from the voice of him who con 
quers shame." 



" Give me, Poet ! (if thy friend may 

be 
Worthy such confidence,) " I said, " the 

key 
Unto thy words, that I may share with 

thee 
Thine added wisdom." Hassan's kindly 

eye 
Before his lips unclosed, spake will- 
ingly, 
And he began : " But two days since, I 

went 
Singing what thou didst hear, with boo.- 

intent 



40 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



On my own virtue, all the markets 

through ; 
And when about the time of prayer, I 

drew 
Near the Gate of Victory, behold ! 
There came a man, whose turban 

fringed with gold 
And golden cimeter, bespake his wealth : 
' May God prolong thy days, Hassan ! 

Health 
And Fortune be thy wisdom's aids ! ' 

he cried ; 
' Come to my garden by the river's side, 
Where other poets wait thee. Be my 

guest, 
For even the Prophets had their times 

of rest, 
And Rest, that strengthens unto virtu- 
ous deeds, 
Is one with Prayer.' Two royal-blooded 

steeds, 
Held by his grooms, were waiting at 

the gate, 
And though I shrank from such un- 
wonted state 
The master's words were manna to my 

pride, 
And, mounting straightway, forth we 

twain did ride 
Unto the garden by the river's side. 



"Never till then had I beheld such 

bloom. 
The west-wind sent its heralds of per- 
fume 
To bid us welcome, midway on the road. 
Full in the sun the marble portal glowed 
Like silver, but within the garden wall 
No ray of sunshine found a place to 

tall, 
So thick the crowning foliage of the 

trees, 
Roofing the walks with twilight ; and 

the aii- 
Under their tops was greener than the 

seas, 
And cool as they. The forms that 

wandered there 
Resembled those who populate the floor 
Of Ocean, and the royal lineage own 
That gave a Princess unto Persia's 

throne. 
All fruits the trees of this fair garden 

bore, 
rVhose balmy fragrance lured the 

tongue to taste 



Their flavors: there bananas flung *j 
waste 

Their golden flagons with thick hone \ 
filled ; 

From splintered cups the ripe pome- 
granates spilled • 

A shower of rubies ; oranges that glow 

Like globes of fire, enclosed a heart o{ 
snow 

Which thawed not in their flame ; like 
balls of gold 

The peaches seemed, that had in blood 
been rolled ; 

Pure saffron mixed with clearest amber 
stained 

The apricots ; bunches of amethyst 

And sapphire seemed the grapes, so 
newly kissed 

That still the mist of Beauty's breath 
remained ; 

And where the lotus slowly swung in 
air 

Her snowy-bosomed chalice, rosy-veined, 

The golden fruit swung softly-cradled 
there, 

Even as a bell upon the bosom swings 

Of some fair dancer, — happy bell, that 
sings 

For joy, its golden tinkle keeping time 

To the heart's beating and the cymbal's 
chime ! 

There dates of agate and of jasper lay, 

Dropped from the bounty of the preg- 
nant palm, 

And all ambrosial trees, all fruits of 
balm, 

All flowers of precious odors, made the 
day 

Sweet as a morn of Paradise. My 
breath 

Failed with the rapture, and with doubt- 
ful mind 

I turned to where the garden's lord re- 
clined, 

And asked, ' Was not that gate the Gate 
of Death 1 ' 



" The guests were near a fountain. As 

I came 
They rose in welcome, wedding to my 

name 
Titles of honor, linked in choicest phrase, 
For Poets' ears are ever quick to Praise, 
The ' Open Sesame !' whose ma^ic ark 
Forces the guarded entrance of thv heart. 
Young men were they, whose manlj 

beauty made 



THE TEMPTATION OF HASSAN BEN KHALED. 



41 



Their words the sweeter, and their 
speech displayed 

Knowledge of men, and of the Prophet's 
laws. 

Pleasant our converse was, where every 
pause 

Gave to the fountain leave to sing its 
song, 

Suggesting further speech ; until, ere- 
long, 

There came a troop of swarthy slaves, 
who hore 

Ewers and pitchers all of silver ore, 

Wherein we washed our hands; then, 
tables placed, 

And brought us meats of every sumptu- 
ous taste 

That makes the blood rich, — pheasants 
stuffed with spice ; 

Young lambs, whose entrails were of 
cloves and rice ; 

Ducks bursting with pistachio nuts, and 
fish 

That in a bed of parsley swam. Each 
dish, 

Cooked with such art, seemed better 
than the last, 

And our indulgence in the rich repast 

Brought on the darkness ere we missed 
the day : 

But lamps were lighted in the fountain's 
spray, 

Or, pendent from the boughs, their col- 
ors told 

What fruits unseen, of crimson or of 
gold, 

Scented the gloom. Then took the gen- 
erous host 

A basket filled with roses. Every guest 

Cried, ' Give me roses ! ' and he thus ad- 
dressed 

His words to all : 'He who exalts them 
most 

In song, he only shall the roses wear.' 

Then sang a guest : ' The rose's cheeks 
are fair ; 

It crowns the purple bowl, and no one 
knows 

If the rose colors it, or it the rose.' 

Vnd sang another : ' Crimson is its 
hue, 

And on its breast the morning's crystal 
dew 

Is changed to rubies.' Then a third re- 
plied : 

' It blushes in the sun's enamo/ed sight, 

A.S a young virgin on her wedding 
night, 



When from her face the bridegroom lifts 

the veil.' 
When all had sung their songs, I, Has- 
san, tried. 
' The Rose,' I sang, 'is either red o/ 

pale, 
Like maidens whom the flame of passion 

burns, 
And Love or Jealousy controls, by 

turns. 
Its buds are lips preparing for a kiss ; 
Its open flowers are like the blush of 

bli^s 
On lovers' cheeks ; the thorns its armor 

are, 
And in its centre shines a golden star, 
As on a favorite's cheek a sequin glows ; 
And thus the garden's favorite is the 

Rose.' 



" The master from his open basket shook 

The roses on my head. The others took 

Their silver cups, and filling them with 
wine, 

Cried, ' Pledge our singing, Hassan, aa 
we thine ! " 

But I exclaimed, ' What is it I have 
heard ? 

Wine is forbidden by the Prophet's 
word : 

Surely, Friends! ye would not light- 
ly break 

The laws which bring ye blessing 1 ' 
Then they spake : 

' O Poet, learn thou that the law was 
made 

For men, and not for poets. Turn thine 
eye 

Within, and read the nature there dis- 
played ; 

The gifts thou hast doth Allah's grace 
deny 

To common men ; they lift thee o'er 
the rules 

The Prophet fixed for sinners and for 
fools. 

The vine is Nature's poet : from his 
bloom 

The air goes reeling, tipsy with per- 
fume, 

And when the sun is warm within his 
blood 

It mounts and sparkles in a crimson 
flood ; 

Rich with dumb songs he speaks not, till 
they find 

Interpretation in the Poet's mind 



42 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



If Wine be evil, Song is e~il too ; 
Then cease thy singing, lest it bring 

thee sin ; 
But would st thou know the strains which 

Hafiz kneAv, 
Drink as he drank, and thus the secret 

win.' 
They clasped my glowing hands ; they 

held the bowl 
Up to my lips, till, losing all control 
Of the fierce thirst, which at my scru- 
ples laughed, 
I drained the goblet at a single draught. 
It ran through every limb like fluid fire : 
More, O my Friends ! ' I cried, the new 

desire 
Raging within me : ' this is life indeed ! 
From blood like this is coined the nobler 

seed 
Whence poets are begotten. Drink 

again, 
And give us music of a tender strain, 
Linking your inspiration unto mine, 
For music hovers on the lips of Wine ! ' 

Till. 

" ' Music ! ' they shouted, echoing my 
demand, 

And answered with a beckon of his 
hand 

The. gracious host, whereat a maiden, 
fair 

As the last star that leaves the morning- 
air, 

Came down the leafy paths. Her veil 
revealed 

The beauty of her face, which, half con- 
cealed 

Behind its thin blue folds, showed like 
the moon 

Behind a cloud that will forsake it soon. 

Her hair was braided darkness, but the 
glance 

Of lightning eyes shot from her counte- 
nance, 

And showed her neck, that like an ivory 
tower 

Rose o'er the twin domes of her marble 
breast. 

Were all the beauty of this age com- 
pressed 

Into one form, she would transcend its 
power. 

Her step was lighter than the young 
gazelle's, 

And as she walked, her anklet's golden 
bells 



Tinkled with pleasure, but weie quicklj 

mute 
With jealousy, as from a case she drew 
With snowy hands the pieces of hei 

lute, * 
And took her seat before me. As it 

grew 
To perfect shape, her lovely arms she 

bent 
Around the neck of the sweet in&i:u- 

ment, 
Till from her soft caresses it awoke 
To consciousness, and thus its rapture 

spoke : 
' I was a tree within an Indian vale, 
When first I heard the love-sick night- 
ingale 
Declare his passion : every leaf was 

stirred 
With the melodious sorrow of the bird, 
And when he ceased, the song remained 

with me. 
Men came anon, and felled the harmless 

tree, 
But from the memory of the songs I 

heard, 
The spoiler saved me from the destiny 
Whereby my brethren perished. O'er 

the sea 
I came, and from its loud, tumultuous 

moan 
I caught a soft and solemn undertone ; 
And when I grew beneath the maker's 

hand 
To what thou seest, he sang (the while 

he planned) 
The mirthful measures of a careless 

heart, 
And of my soul his songs became a 

part. 
Now they have laid my head upon a 

breast 
Whiter than marble, I am wholly blest. 
The fair hands smite me, and my strings 

complain 
With such melodious cries, they smite 

again, 
Until, with passion and with sorrow 

swayed, 
My torment moves the bosom of the 

maid, 
Who hears it speak her own. 1 am the 

voice 
Whereby the lovers languish or rejoice 
And they caress me, knowing that my 

strain 
Alone can speak the language of theil 

pain.' 



THE TEMPTATION OF HASSAN BEN KHALED. 



43 



IX. 

'Heie ceased the fingers of the maid 

to stray 
Over the strings ; the sweet song died 

away 
lu mellow, drowsy murmurs, and the 

lute 
Leaned on her fairest bosom, and was 

mute. 
Better than wine that music was to me: 
Not the lute only felt her hands, but 

she 
Played on my heart-strings, till the 

sounds became 
Incarnate in the pulses of my frame. 
Speech left my tongue, and in my tears 

alone 
Found utterance. With stretched arms 

I implored 
Continuance, whereat her fingers poured 
A tenderer music, answering the tone 
Her parted lips released, the while her 

throat 
Throbbed, as a heavenly bird were flut- 
tering there, 
And gave her voice the wonder of his 

note. 
' His brow,' she sang, 'is white beneath 

his hair ; 
The fertile beard is soft upon his chin, 
Shading the mouth that nestles warm 

within, 
As a rose nestles in its leaves ; I see 
His eyes, but cannot tell what hue they 

be, 
For the sharp eyelash, like a sabre, 

speaks 
The martial law of Passion ; in his 

cheeks 
The quick blood mounts, and then as 

quickly goes, 
Leaving a tint like marble when a rose 
Is held inside it : — bid him veil his eyes, 
Lest all my soul should unto mine arise, 
And he behold it ! ' As she sang, her 

glance 
Dwelt on my face ; her beauty, like a 

lance, 
Transfixed my heart. I melted into 

sighs, 
Slain by the arrows of her beautev us 

eyes. 
1 Why is her bosom made ' (I cried) ' a 

snare 1 
Why does a single ringlet of her hair 
Hold my heart captive 1 ' ' Would you 
fcnow ? ' ehe said ; 



' It is that you are mad with love, and 

chains 
Were made for madmen.' Then she 

raised her head 
With answering love, that led to other 

strains, 
Until the lute, which shared with her 

the smart, 
Rocked as in storm upon her beating 

heart. 
Thus to its wires she made impassioned 

cries : 
' I swear it by the brightness of his eyes , 
I swear it by the darkness of his hair ; 
By the warm bloom his limbs and bosom 

wear ; 
By the fresh pearls his rosy lips enclose , 
By the calm majesty of his repose ; 
By smiles I coveted, and frowns I feared, 
And by the shooting myrtles of his 

beard, — 
I swear it, that from him the morning 

drew 
Its freshness, and the moon her silvery 

hue, 
The sun his brightness, and the stars 

their fire, 
And musk and camphor all their odor- 
ous breath : 
And if he answer not my love's desire, 
Day will be night to me, and Life le 

Death ! ' 



" Scarce had she ceased, when, over 
come, I fell 

Upon her bosom, where the lute no more 

That night was cradled ; song was si- 
lenced well 

With kisses, each one sweeter than be- 
fore, 

Until their fiery dew so long was 
quaffed, 

I drank delirium in the infectious 
draught. 

The guests departed, but the sounds 
they made 

I heard not ; in the fountain-haunted 
shade 

The lamps burned out ; the moon rode 
far above, 

But the trees chased her from our nest 
of love. 

Dizzy with passion, in mine ears the 
blood 
J Tingled and hummed in a tumultuous 
flood, 

Until from deep to deep I seemed to fall, 



44 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



Like him, who from El Sirat's hair- 
drawn wall 
Plunges to endless gulfs. In broken 

gleams 
Glimmered the things I saw, so mixed 

with dreams 
The vain confusion blinded every sense, 
And knowledge left me. Then a sleep 

intense 
Fell on my brain, and held me as the 

dead, 
Until a sudden tumult smote my head, 
And a strong glare, as when a torch is 

hurled 
Before a sleeper's eyes, brought back 

the world. 

XI. 

" Most wonderful ! The fountain and 

the trees 
Had disappeared, and in the place of 

these 
I saw the well-known Gate of Victory. 
The sun was high ; the people looked at 

me, 
And marvelled that a sleeper should be 

there 
On the hot pavement, for the second 

prayer 
Was called from all the minarets. I 

passed 
My-hand across my eyes, and found at 

last 
What man I was. Then straightway 

through my heart 
There rang a double pang, — the bitter 

smart 
Of evil knowledge, and the unhealthy 

lust 
Of sinful pleasure; and I threw the 

dust 
Upon my head, the burial of my pride, — 
The ashen soil, wherein I plant the tree 
Of Penitence. The people saw, and 

cried, 
' May God reward thee, Hassan ! Truly, 

thou, 
Whom men have honored, addest to thy 

brow 
The crowning lustre of Humility : 
4s thou abasest, God exalteth thee ! ' 
Which when I heard, I shed such tears 

of shame 
A.s might erase the record of my blame, 
\ni from that time I have not dared to 

curse 
The unrighteous, since the man who 

aeemeth worse 



Than I, may purer be ; for, when I feU 
Temptation reached a loftier pinnacle. 
Therefore, Man ! be Charity thy aim • 
Praise cannot harm, but weigh thy wordi 

of blame. 
Distrust the Virtue that itself exalts, 
But turn to that which doth avow ita 

faults, 
And from Eepentance plucks a whole- 
some fruit. 
Pardon, not Wrath, is God's best attri 
bute." 



" The tale, Poet ! which thy lips hare 

told," 
I said, " is words of rubies set in gold. 
Precious the wisdom which from evil 

draws 
Strength to fulfil the good, of Allah's 

laws. 
But lift thy head, Hassan ! Thine 

own words 
Shall best console thee, for my tongue 

affords 
No phrase hut thanks for what thou 

hast bestowed ; 
And yet I fain would have thee shake 

the load 
Of shame from off thy shoulders, seeing 

still 
That by this fall thou hast increased thv 

will 
To do the work which makes thee truly 

blest." 
Hassan Ben Khaled wept and smote hi- 

breast : 
" Hold ! hold, Man ! " he cried : " why 

make me feel 
A deeper shame ! Why force me U 

reveal 
That Sin is as the leprous taint no art 
Can cleanse the blood from ? In mj 

secret heart 
I do believe I hold at dearer cost 
The vanished Pleasure, than the Virtue 

lost." 

So saving, he arose and went his way ; 
And Allah grant he go no more astray 



SHEKH AHNAF'S LETTEH 
FROM BAGHDAD. 

In Allah's name, the Ever Merciful, 
The Most Compassionate ! To thee, m' 
friend, 



SHEKH AHNAF S LETTER FROM BAGHDAD. 



45 



Ben-Arii, peace and blessing ! May this 

scroll, 
A favored herald, tell thee in Tangier 
That Ahnaf follows soon, if Allah wills! 
Yes, af rer that last day at Arafat 
Whereof I wrote thee, — after weary 

moons, 
Delayed among the treacherous Waha- 

bees, — 
The long, sweet rest beneath Derreyeh's 

palms, 
That cooled my body for the burning 

bath 
Of naked valleys in the hither waste 
Beside Euphrates, — now behold me 

here 
in Baghdad ! Here, and drinking from 

the well 
Whose first pure waters fertilized the 

West! 

I, as thou knowest, with both my hands 
took hold 

Of Law and of Tradition, so to lift 

To knowledge and obedience my soul. 

Severe was I accounted — but my 
strength 

Was likewise known of all men ; and I 
craved 

The sterner discipline which Islam first 

Endured, and knit the sinews of our race. 

What says the Law 1 — " Who changes 
or perverts, 

Conceals, rejects, or holds of small ac- 
count, 

Though it were but the slightest seem- 
ing word, 

Hath all concealed, perverted, slighted ! " 
This, 

Thou knowest, I held, and hold. Here, 
I hoped, 

The rigid test should gladden limbs pre- 
pared 

To bend, accept, and then triumphant 
rise. 

Even as the weak of faith rejoice to 
find 

iome lax interpretation, I rejoiced 

,n foretaste of the sure severity. 

As near I drew, across the sandy flats, 

Above the palms the yellow minaret 

Wrote on the sky my welcome : " Ahnaf, 
hail ! 

3ere, in the city of the Abbasid, 

Set thou thine evening by its morning 

star 
)f Faith, and bind the equal East and 
West ! " 



Ah me, Ben-Arif ! how shall pen ol 

mine 
Set forth the perturbation of the soul ? 
To doubt were death ; not hope, were 

much the same 
As not believe — but Allah tries my 

strength 
Wirh tests far other than severest law* 
When I had bathed, t^d then had 

cleansed with prayer 
My worn and dusty soul, (so, doubly pure, 
Pronounced the fathah as 't is heard i,i 

- Heaven), 
I sought the court-yard of Almansour'a 

mosque, 
Where, after asser, creeping shadows cool 
The marble, and the shekhs in com- 
merce grave 
Keep fresh the ancient wisdom. Me 

they gave 
Beception kindly, though perchance I 

felt — 
Or fancied, only — lack of special 

warmth 
For vows accomplished and my pilgrim 

zeal. 
" Where is Tangier 1 " said one ; whereat 

the rest 
With most indifferent knowledge did 

discuss 
The problem — none, had they but 

questioned me ! — 
Then snatched again the theme they 

half let drop, 
And in their heat forgot me. 

I, abashed, 
Sat listening : vainly did I prick mine 

ears. 
I knew the words, indeed, but missed 

therein 
The wonted sense : they stripped our 

Holy Book 
Of every verse which not contains the 

Law, — 
Spake Justice and Forgiveness, Peace 

and Love, 
Nor once the duties of the right hand 

fixed, 
Nor service of the left : the nature they 
Of Allah glorified, and not His names : 
Of customs and observances no word 
Their lips let fall : and I distinguished 

not, 
Save by their turbans, that they other 

were 
Than Jews, or Christians, or the Pagan? 

damned. 



46 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



Methought I dreamed and in my mind 
withdrawn 

At last heard only the commingling clash 

Of voices near me, and the songs outside 

Of boatmen on the Tigris. Then a hand 

Came on my shoulder, and the oldest 
shekh, 

White-bearded Hatem, spake : " Ah- 
naf! thou 

Art here a stranger, and it scarce be- 
seems 

'I hat we should speak of weighty mat- 
ters thus 

Ti ^instructed ears — the less, to 
thine, 

Which, filled so long with idle sand, re- 
quire 

The fresh delight of sympathetic speech 

That cools like yonder fountain, and 
makes glad. 

Nor wouldst thou hear, perchance, nor 
could we give 

An easy phrase as key to what so long 

Hath here been forged : but come to- 
night with me 

Where this shall be applied, and more, 
to bring 

Islam a better triumph than the sword 

Of Ali gave ; for that but slew the foe, 

This maketh him a friend." 

I, glad at heart 

To know my hope not false, yet won- 
dering much, 

Gave eager promise, and at nightfall 
went 

With Hatem to the college of a sect 

We know not in the West — nor is there 
need : 

An ancient hall beneath a vaulted dome, 

With hanging lamps well lit, and cush- 
ioned seats 

Where sat a grave and motley multi- 
tude. 

When they beheld my guide, they all 
arose, 

.\ncl "Peace be with thee, Hatem!" 
greeting, cried. 

Ha, whispering to me : " Ahnaf, sit 

And hear, be patient, wonder if thou 
wilt. 

But keep thy questions sagely to the end, 

When I shall seek thee " — to a dais 
passed, 

\nd sat him down. And all were silent 
there 

[n decent order, or in whispers spoke ; 

But great my marvel was when I beheld 



Parsee and Jew and Christian -ye^ 

the race 
Of Boodh and Brahma — with the Faith- 
ful mixed 
As if were no defilement ! Lo ! they 

rose 
Again, with equal honor to salute 
The Rabbi Daood, Jewest of the Jews, — 
And even so, for an Armenian priest ! 
Yet both some elder prophets share with 

us, 
And it might pass : but twice again 

they rose, — 
Once for a Parsee, tinged like smoky 

milk, 
His hat a leaning tower, — and once, a 

dark, 
Grave man, with turban thinner than a 

wheel, 
A wafer on his forehead (Satan's 

sign!) — 
A worshipper of Ganges and the cow ! 
These made my knees to smite : yet 

Hatem stood 
And gave his hand, and they beside him 

sat. 

Then one by one made speech ; and 

what the first, 
The shrill-tongued Rabbi, claimed as 

rule for all, 
That they accepted. " Forasmuch ' 

(said he) x 
" As either of our sects hath special lore 
Which not concerns the others — special 

signs 
And marvels which the others must re- 
ject, 
However holy and attested deemed, 
Set we all such aside, and hold oui 

minds 
Alone to that which in our creeds hath 

power 
To move, enlighten, strengthen, pu- 
rify, - 
The God behind the veil of miracles ! 
So speak we to the common brain ol 

each 
And to the common heart ; for what of 

Truth 
Grows one with life, is manifest to all, 
Or Jew, or Moslem, or whatever name, 
And none deny it: test we then hov* 

much 
This creed or that hath power to shape 

true lives." 
All there these words applauded : H* 

tern most, 



SHEKH AHNAF S LETTER FROM BAGHDAD. 



47 



Who spak3 : " My acquiescence lies 

therein, 
That on thy truth, O Jew ! I build the 

claim 
Of him, our Prophet, to autr.ority." 
Then some one near me, jeering, said : 

" Well done ! 
He gives up Gabriel aud the Beast 

Borak ! " 
" Yea, but " — another answered — 

" must the Jew 
Net also lose his Pharaohs and his 

plagues, 
llxs rams'-horns and his Joshua and the 

sun ? " 
u For once the Christians," whispered 

back a Jew, 
u Must cease to turn their water into 

wine, 
Or feed the multitude with five small 

loaves 
And two small fishes." Thus the peo- 
ple talked ; 
While I, as one that in a dream appears 
To eat the flesh of swine, and cannot 

help 
The loathsome dream, awaited what 

should come. 

To me it seemed — and doubtless to the 

rest, 
Though heretics and pagans — as the 

chiefs 
Who there disputed were both maimed 

and bound, 
So little dared they offer, shorn and 

lopped 
Of all their vigor, false as well as true. 
Was it of Islam that Shekh Hatem 

spake, 
With ringing tongue and fiery words 

that forced 
Unwilling tears from Pagan and from 

Jew, 
vnd cries of " Allah Akhbar ! " from his 

own ? 
Forsooth, I know not : he was Islam's 

chief. 
How dared he nod his head and smile, 

to hear 
The Jew declare his faith in God the 

Lord, 
The Christian preach of love and sacri- 
fice, 
The Parsee and the Hindoo recognize 
The uifts of charity and temperance, 
And peace and purity ? If this be so, 
And heretic and pagan crowd with us 



The gates of Allah's perfect Paradise, 
Why hath He sent His Prophet ? Nay, 

— I write 
In anger, not in doubt : nor need I here 
To thee, Ben-Arif, faithful man and 

wise, 
Portray the features of my shame and 

grief. 

Ere all had fully spoken, T, confused,— 
Hearing no word of washing c/ of prayer 
Of cross, or ark, or fire, or symbol else 
Idolatrous, obscene, — could only £-<=«« 
What creed was glorified befon ii* 

crowd, 
By garb and accent of the chief who 

spake : 
And scarcely then ; for oft, as one set 

forth 
His holiest duties, all, as with one voice, 
Exclaimed : " But also these are mine I" 

The strife 
Was then, how potent were they, how 

observed, — 
Made manifest in life ? One cannot say 
That such are needless, but their sacred 

stamp 
Comes from observance of all forms of 

law, 
Which here — the strength of Islam — 

was suppressed. 
Their wrangling — scarcely could it so 

be called ! — 
Was o'er the husks : the kernel of the 

creed 
They first picked out, and flung it to 

the winds. 

I, pierced on every side with sorest 

stings, 
Waited uneasily the end delayed, 
When Hatem spake once more : his eye 

was bright, 
And the long beard that o'er his girdle 

rolled 
Shook as in storm. " Now, God be 

praised ! " he cried : 
" God ever merciful, compassionate, 
Hath many children ; these have many 

tongues : 
But of one blood are they, one truth 

they seek, 
One law of Love and Justice fits them 

all. 
And they have many Prophets : may it 

be, 
Though not of like commission, in sc 

far 



48 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



As they declare His truth, they speak 

for Him ! 
Go past their histories : accept their 

souls, 
And whatsoe'er of perfect and of pure 
Is breathed from each, in each and all 

the same, 
Confirms the others' office and its own ! 
Here is the centre of the moving 

wheel, — 
The point of rest, wherefrom the sepa- 
rate creeds 
Build out their spokes, that seem to 

chase and flee, 
Revolving in the marches of His Day ! 
If one be weak, destroy it : if it bear 
Unstrained His glory of Eternal Truth, 
And firmer fibre from the ages gain, 
Behold, at la-t it shall replace the rest ! 
Even as He wills ! The bright solution 

grows 
Nearer and clearer with the whirling 

years : 
Till finally the use of outward signs 
Shall be outworn, the crumbling walls 

thrown down, 
And one Religion shall make glad the 

world ! " 

More I could not endure: I did not 
wait 

For Hatem's coming, as he promised 
me ; 

Vet — ere amid the crow r ds I could 
escape — 

I saw the Rabbi and the Christian priest 

Fall on his neck with weeping. With 
a groan, 

A horrid sense of smothering in my 
throat, 

And words I will not write, I gained 
the air, 

And saw, Prophet! how thy Cres- 
cent shone 

Above the feathery palm-tops, and the 

dorja 
)f Haroun's tomb upon the Tigris' 
bank. 

And this is Baghdad! — Eblis, rather 
say ! — 

I > fallen city of the Abbasid, 

Where Islam is defiled, and by its 
sons ! 

Prepare, Ben-Arif, to receive thy friend, 

Who with the coming moon shall west- 
ward turn 

To keep his faith undarkened in Tan- 
gier ! 



EL KHALIL. 

I am no chieftain, fit to lead 

Where spears are hurled and warion 

bleed ; 
No poet, in my chanted rhyme 
To rouse the ghosts of ancient time ; 
No magian, with a subtle ken 
To rule the thoughts of other men ; 
Yet far as sounds the Arab tongue 
My name is known to old and young. 

My form has lost its pliant grace, 
There is no beauty in my face, 
There is no cunning in my arm, 
The Children of the Sun to charm ; 
Yet, where I go, my people's eyes 
Ar5 lighted with a glad surprise, 
And in each tent a conch is free, 
And by each fire a place, for me. 

They watch me from the palms, and 

some 
Proclaim my coming ere I come. 
The children lift my hand to meet 
The homage of their kisses sweet ; 
With manly warmth the men embrace, 
The veiled maidens seek my face, 
And eyes, fresh kindled from the heart 
Keep loving watch when I depart. 

On God, the Merciful, I call, 
To shed His blessing over all : 
I praise His name, for He is Great, 
And Loving, and Compassionate; 
And for the gift of love I give — 
The breath of life whereby I live — 
He gives me back, in overflow, 
His children's love, where'er I go. 

Deep sunk in sin the man must be 
That has no friendly word for me. 
I pass through tribes whose trade is 

death, 
And not a sabre quits the sheath ; 
For strong, and cruel as they prove, 
The sons of men are weak to Love. 
The humblest gifts to them I bring ; 
Yet in their hearts I rule, a king. 



SONG. 

Daughter of Egypt, veil thine eyes! 

I cannot bear their fire ; 
Nor will I touch with sacrifice 

Those altars of Desire. 



AMR AN S WOOING. 



49 



For they are flames that shun the day, 

And their unholy light 
Is fed from natures gone astray 

Iu passion and in night. 

The stars of Beauty and of Sin, 

They burn amid the dark, 
Like beacons that to ruin win 

The fascinated bark. 
Then veil their glow, lest I forswear 

'J'h 3 hopes thou canst not crown, 
And in the black waves of thy hair 

My struggling manhood drown ! 

AMRAN'S WOOING. 



Von ask, Frank ! how Love is born 
Within these glowing climes of Morn, 
Where envious veils conceal the charms 
That tempt a Western lover's arms, 
And how, without a voice or sound, 
From heart to heart the path is found, 
Since on the eye alone is flung 
The burden of the silent tongue. 
You hearken Avith a doubtful smile 
Whene'er the wandering bards beguile 
Our evening indolence with strains 
Whose words gush molten through our 

veins, — 
The songs of Love, but half confessed, 
Where Passion sobs on Sorrow's breast, 
And mighty longings, tender fears, 
Steep the strong heart in fire and tears. 
The source of each accordant strain 
Lies deeper than the Poet's brain. 
First from the people's heart must spring 
The passions which he learns to sing ; 
They are the wind, the harp is he, 
To voice their fitful melody, — 
The language of their varying fate, 
Their pride, grief, love, ambition, 

hate, — 
The talisman which holds inwrought 
The touchstone of the listener's thought; 
That penetrates each vain disguise, 
And brings his secret to his eyes. 
for, like a solitary bird 
iiiat hides among the boughs unheard 
Until some mate, whose carol breaks, 
Its own betraying song awakes, 
So, to its echo in those lays, 
lie ardent heart itself betrays. 
,'rowned with a prophet's honor, stands 
The Poet, on Arabian sands ; 
A chief, whose subjects love his thrall, — 
The svmpathizinu heart of all. 
4 



Vaunt not your Western maids to me, 
Whose charms to every gaze are free : 
My love is selfish, and would share 
Scarce with the sun, or general air, 
The s : ght of beauty which has shone 
Once for mine eyes, and mine alone. 
Love n ikes concealment ; he can dress 
With fancied grace the loveliness 
That shrinks behind its virgin veil, 
As hides the moon her forehead pale 
Behind a cloud, yet leaves the air 
Softer than if her orb were there. 
And as the splendor of a star, 
When sole in heaven, seems brighter far, 
So shines the eye, Love's star and sun, 
The brighter, that it shines alone. 
The light from out its darkne>s sent 
Is Passion's life and element ; 
And when the heart is warm and young, 
Let but that single ray be flung 
Upon its surface, and the deep 
Heaves from its unsuspecting sleep, 
As heaves the ocean when its floor 
Breaks over the volcano's core. 
Who thinks if cheek or lip be fair? 
Is not all beauty centered where 
The soul looks out, the feelings move, 
And Love his answer gives to love ? 
Look on the sun, and you will find 
For other sights your eyes are blind. 
Look — if the colder blood you share 
Can give your heart the strength to 

dare — 
In eyes of dark and tender fire : 
What more can blinded love desire ? 



in. 

I was a stripling, quick and bold, 
And rich in pride as poor in gold, 
When God's good will my journey beni 
One day to Shekh Abdall all's tent. 
My only treasure was a steed 
Of Araby's most precious breed ; 
And whether 't was in boastful whim 
To show his mettled speed of limb, 
Or that presumption, which, in sooth, 
Becomes the careless brow of youth, — 
Which takes the world as birds the ail, 
And moves in freedom everywhere, — 
It matters not. But 'midst the tents 
I rode in easy confidence, 
Till to Abdallah's door I pressed 
And made myself the old man's guest. 
My " Peace be with you ! " was returned 
With the grave courtesy he learned 



50 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



from age ani long authority, 
And in God's name he welcomed me. 
The pipe replenished, with its stem 
Of jasmine wood and amber gem, 
Was at my lips, and while I drew 
The rosy-sweet, soft vapor through 
In ringlets of dissolving blue, 
Waiting his speech with reverence meet, 
A woman's garments brushed my feet, 
And first through boyish senses ran 
The pulse of love which made me man. 
The handmaid of her father's cheer, 
With timid grace she glided near, 
And, lightly dropping on her knee, 
Held out a silver zerf to me, 
Within whose cup the fragrance sent 
From Yemen's sunburnt berries blent 
With odors of the Persian rose. 
That picture still in memory glows 
With the same heat as then, — the gush 
Of fever, with its fiery flush 
Startling my blood ; and I can see — 
As she this moment knelt to me — 
The shrouded graces of her form ; 
The half-seen arm, so round and warm ; 
The little hand, whose tender veins 
Branched through the henna's orange 

stains ; 
The head, in act of offering bent ; 
And through the parted veil, which lent 
A charm for what it hid, the eye, 
Gazelle-like, large, and dark, and shy, 
That with a soft, sweet tremble shone 
Beneath the fervor of my own, 
Yet could not, would not, turn away 
The fascination of its ray, 
But half in pleasure, half in fright, 
Grew unto mine, and builded bright 
^rom heart to heart a bridge of light. 



From the fond trouble of my look 
The zerf within her fingers shook, 
As with a start, like one who breaks 
Some happy trance of thought, and 

wakes 
Unto forgotten toil, she rose 
\n& passed. I saw the curtains close 
Behind her steps : the light was gone, 
But ir the dark my heart dreamed on. 
Seme random words — thanks ill ex- 
pressed — 
I to the stately Shekh addressed, 
With the intelligence which he, 
My host, could not demand of me ; 
How, wandering in the desert chase, 
I Hpied from far his camping-place, 



And Arab honor bade me halt 

To break his bread and share his salt. 

Thereto, fit reverence for his name, 

The pi-aise our speech is quick to frame, 

Which, empty though it seem, was dear 

To the old warrior's willing ear, 

And led his thoughts, by many a track, 

To deeds of ancient prowess back, 

Until my love could safely hide 

Beneath the covert of his pride. 

And when his " Go with God ! " waa 

said, 
Upon El-Azrek's back I sped 
Into the desert, wide and far, 
Beneath the silver evening-star, 
And, fierce with passion, without heed 
Urged o'er the sands my snorting steed 
As if those afrites, feared of man, — 
Who watch the lonely caravan, 
And, if a loiterer lags behind, 
Efface its tracks with sudden wind, 
Then fill the air with cheating cries, 
And make false pictures to his eyes 
Till the bewildered sufferer dies, — 
Had breathed on me their demon breath 
And spurred me to the hunt of Death. 



Yet madness such as this was worth 
All the cool wisdom of the earth, 
And sweeter glowed its wild unrest 
Than the old calm of brain and breast. 
The image of that maiden beamed 
Through all I saw, or thought, oi 

dreamed, 
Till she became, like Light or Air, 
A part of life. And she shall share, 
I vowed, my passion and my fate, 
Or both shall fail me, soon or late, 
In the vain effort to possess ; 
Tor Life lives only in success. 
I could not, in her father's sight, 
Purchase the hand which was his right 
And well I knew how quick denied 
The prayer would be to empty pride ; 
But Heaven and Earth shall sooner more 
Than bar the energy of Love. 
The sinews of my life became 
Obedient to that single aim, 
And desperate deed and patient though* 
Together in its service wrought. 
Keen as a falcon, when his eye 
In search of quarry reads the sky, 
I stole unseen, at eventide, 
Behind the well, upon whose side 
The girls their jars of water leaned. 
By one long, sandy hillock screened, 



AMRAN S WOOING. 



51 



I watched the forms that went and 

came, 
With eyes that sparkled with the flame 
Up from my heart in flashes sent, 
As one by one they came and went 
Amid the sunset radiance cast 
On the red sands : they came and 

passed, 
And she, — thank God ! — she came at 

last! 



Then, while her fair companion bound 
The cord her pitcher's throat aro ind, 
And steadied with a careful hand 
Its slow descent, upon the saud 
At the Shekh's daughter's feet, I sped 
A slender arrow, shaft aud head 
With breathing jasmine- flowers en- 
twined, 
And roses such as on the wind 
Of evening with rich odors fan 
The white kiosks of Ispahan. 
A moment, fired with love and hope, 
I stayed upon the yellow slope 
El-Azrek's hoofs, to see her raise 
Her startled eyes in sweet amaze, — 
To see her make the unconscious sign 
Which recognized the gift as mine, 
And place, before she turned to part, 
The flowery barb against her heart. 



Again the Shekh's divan I pressed : 
The jasmine pipe was brought the 

guest, 
And Mariam, lovelier than before, 
Knelt with the steamy cup once more. 
bliss ! within those eyes to see 
A soul of love look out on me, — 
A fount of passion, which is truth 
In the wild dialect of Youth, — 
Whose rich abundance is outpoured 
Like worship at a shrine adored, 
And on its rising deluge bears 
The heart to raptures or despairs. 
While from the cup the zerf contained 
The foamy amber juice I drained, 
A rose-bud in the zerf expressed 
The sweet confetoion of her breast. 
One glance of glad intelligence, 
Ana silently she glided thence. 
'' Shekh ! " I cried, as she withdrew, 
'Short is the speech where hearts are 

true,) 
'■' Thou hast a daughter ; let me be 
V shield to her, a sword to thee ! " 



Abdallah turned his steady eye 
Full on my face, and made reply : 
" It cannot be. The treasure sent 
By God must not be idly spent. 
Strong men there are, in service tried, 
Who seek the maiden for a bride ; 
And shall I slight their worth and 

truth 
To feed the passing flame cf youth r % " 



" No passing flame ! " my answer ran ; 
" But love which is the life of man, 
Warmed with his blood, fed by Lis 

breath, 
And, when it fails him, leaves but 

Death. 

Shekh, I hoped not thy consent ; 
But having tasted in thy tent 

An Arab welcome, shared thy bread, 

1 come to warn thee I shall wed 
Thy daughter, though her suitors be 
As leaves upon the tamarind-tree. 
Guard her as thou mayst guard, I sweai 
No other bed than mine shall wear 
Her virgin honors, and thy race 
Through me shall keep its ancient place. 
Thou 'rt warned, and duty bids no more ; 
For, when I next approach thy doer, 
Her child shall intercessor be 

To build up peace 'twixt thee and me." 
A little flushed my boyish brow ; 
But calmly then I spake, as now. 
The Shekh, with dignity that flung 
Rebuke on my impetuous tongue, 
Replied : " The young man's hopes are 

fair ; 
The young man's blood would all things 

dare. 
But age is wisdom, and can bring 
Confusion on the soaring wing 
Of reckless youth. Thy words are just. 
But needless ; for I still can tru?t 
A father's jealousy to shield 
From robber grasp the gem concealed 
Within his tent, till he may yield 
To fitting hands the precious store. 
Go, then, in peace; but come no more. 



My only sequin served to bribe 

A cunning mother of the tribe 

To Mariana's mind my plan to bring. 

A feather of the wild dove's wing, 

A lock of raven gloss and stain 

Sheared from El-Azrek's flowing mane 



52 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



And that pale flower whose fragrant cup 
Is closed until the moon comes up, — 
But then a tenderer beauty holds 
Than any flower the sun unfolds, — 
Declared my purpose. Her reply 
Let loose the winds of ecstasy : 
Two roses and the moonlight flower 
Told the acceptance, and the hour, — 
Two daily suns to waste their glow, 
And then, at moonrise, bliss — or woe. 



El-Azrek now, on whom alone 
The burden of our fate was thrown, 
Claimed from my hands a double meed 
Of careful training for the deed. 
I gave him of my choicest store, — 
No guest was ever honored more. 
With flesh of kid, with whitest bread 
And dates of Egypt was he fed ; 
The camel's heavy udders gave 
Their frothy juice his thirst to lave : 
A charger, groomed with better care, 
The Sultan never rode to prayer. 
My burning hope, my torturing fear, 
I breathed in his sagacious ear ; 
Caressed him as a brother might, 
Implored his utmost speed in flight, 
Hung on bis neck with many a vow, 
And kissed the white star on his brow. 
His large and lustrous eyeball sent 
A look which made me confident, 
As if in me some doubt he spied, 
And met it with a human pride. 
''Enough : I trust thee. 'T is the hour, 
And I have need of all thy power. 
Without a wing, God gives thee wings, 
And Fortune to thy forelock clings." 



The yellow moon was rising large 
Above the Desert's dusky marge, 
And save the jackal's whining moan, 
Or distant camel's gurgling groan, 
And the lamenting monotone 
Of winds that breathe their vain desire 
And on the lonely sands expire, 
A .silent charm, a breathless spell, 
Waited with me beside the well. 
She is not there, — not yet, — but soon 
A white robe glimmers in the moon. 
Her little footsteps make no sound 
On the soft sand ; and with a bound, 
Where terror, doubt, and love unite 
To blind her heart to all but flight, 
Trembling, and panting, and oppressed 



She threw herself upon my breast. 
By Allah ! like a bath of flame 
The seething blood tumultuous came 
From life's hot centre as I drew 
Her month to mine : our spirits grew 
Together in one long, long kiss, — 
One swooning, speechless pulse of blis» 
That, throbbing from the heart's core 

met 
In the united lips. Oh, yet 
The eternal sweetness of that draught 
Renews the thirst with which I quaffe*} 
Love's virgin vintage : starry fire 
Leapt from the twilights of desire, 
And in the golden dawn of dreams 
The space grew warm with radian 

beams, 
Which from that kiss streamed o'er a 

sea 
Of rapture, in whose bosom we 
Sank down, and sank eternally. 



Now nerve thy limbs, El-Azrek ! Fling 
Thy head aloft, and like a wing 
Spread on the wind thy cloudy mane ! 
The hunt is itp : their stallions strain 
The urgent shoulders close behind, 
And the wide nostril drinks the wind. 
But thou art, too, of Nedjid's breed, 
My brother ! and the falcon's speed 
Slant down the storm's advancing line 
Would laggard be if matched with thine. 
Still leaping forward, whistling through 
The moonlight-laden air, we flew ; 
And from the distance, threateningly, 
Came the pursuer's eager cry. 
Still forward, forward, stretched oui 

flight 
Through the long hours of middle night , 
One after one the followers lagged, 
And even my faithful Azrek flagged 
Beneath his double burden, till 
The streaks of dawn began to fill 
The East, and freshening in the race, 
Their goaded horses gained apace. 
I drew my dagger, cut the girth, 
Tumbled my saddle to the earth, 
And clasped with desperate energies 
My stallion's side with iron knees; 
While Mariam, clinging to my breast, 
The closer for that peril pressed. 
They come ! they come ! Their shouti 

we hear, 
Now faint and far, now fierce and neai 
O brave El-Azrek ! on the track 
Let not one fainting sinew slack, 



THE GARDEN OF IREM. 



53 



Or know thine agony of flight 
Fndured in vain ! The purple light 
Of breaking morn has come at last. 
joy ! the thirty leagues are past ; 
And, gleaming in the sunrise, see, 
The white tents of the Aneyzee ! 
The warriors of the waste, the foes 
Of Shekh Abdallah's tribe, are those 
Whose shelter and support I claim, 
Which they bestow in Allah's name ; 
While, wheeling back, the baffled few 
No longer venture to pursue. 



And now, Frank ! if you would see 

How soft the eyes that looked on me 

Through Mariana's silky lashes, scan 

Those of my little Solyman. 

And should you marvel if the child 

His stately grandsire reconciled 

To that bold theft, when years had 

brought 
The golden portion which he sought, 
And what upon this theme befell. 
The Shekh himself can better tell. 

THE GARDEN OF IREM. 



Have you seen the Garden of Irem 1 
No mortal knoweth the road thereto. 
Find me a path in the mists that gather 
When the sunbeams scatter the morn- 
ing dew, 
And I will lead you thither. 
Give me a key to the halls of the sun 
When he goes behind the purple sea, 
Or a wand to open the vaults that run 
Down to the af rite-guarded treasures, 
And I will open its doors to thee. 
Who hath tasted its countless pleasures? 
Who hath breathed, in its winds of spice, 
Raptures deeper than Paradise ? 
Who hath trodden its ivory floors, 
Where the fount drops pearls from a 

golden shell, 
And heard the hinges of diamond doors 
Swing to the music of Israfel 1 
Its roses blossom, its palms arise, 
By the phantom stream that flows so fair 
Under the Desert's burning skies. 
Can you reach that flood, can you drink 

its tide, 
Can you swim its waves to the farther 

Bide, 
four feet may enter there. 



II. 

I have seen the Garden of Irem. 
I found it, but I sought it not : 
Without a path, without a guide, 
I found the enchanted spot : 
Without a key its golden gate stood a ide. 
I was young, and strong, and bold, am? 

free 
As the milk-white foal of the Nedjidee, 
And the blood in my veins was like sap 

of the vine, 
That stirs, and mounts, and will not step 
Till the breathing blossoms that bring 

the wine 
Have drained its balm to the last sweet 

drop. 
Lance and barb were all I knew, 
Till deep in the Desert the spot I found, 
Where the marvellous gates of Irem threw 
Their splendors over an unknown ground, 
Mine were the pearl and ivory floors, 
Mine the music of diamond doors, 
Turning each on a newer glory : 
Mine were the roses -whose bloom outran 
The spring-time beauty of Gulistan, 
And the fabulous flowers of Persian story. 
Mine were the palms of silver stems, 
And blazing emerald for diadems ; 
The fretted arch and the gossamer 

wreath, 
So light and frail you feared to breathe ; 
Yet o'er them rested the pendant spars 
Of domes bespangled with silver stars, 
And crusted gems of rare adorning : 
And ever higher, like a shaft of fire, 
The lessening links of the golden spire 
Flamed in the myriad-colored morning i 

Like one who lies on the marble lip 
Of the blessed bath in a tranquil rest, 
And stirs not even a finger's tip 
Lest the beatific dream should slip, 
So did I lie in Irem's breast. 
Sweeter than Life and stronger than 

Death 
Was e~ery draught of that blissfal 

breath ; 
Warmer than summer came its glow 
To the youthful heart in a mighty flood. 
And sent its bold and generous blood 
To water the world in its onward flow. 
There, where the Garden of Irem lies, 
Are the roots of the Tree of Paradise, 
And happy are they wiio sit below, 
When into this world of Strife and Death 
The blossoms are shaken by Allah's 

breath 



54 POEMS OF THE ORIENT 

THE WISDOM OF ALL 

AN ARAB LEGEND. 



The Prophet once, sitting in calm de- 
bate, 
Said : "I am Wisdom's fortress ; but 

the gate 
Thereof is Ali." Wherefore, some who 

heard, 
With unbelieving jealousy were stirred ; 
A.nd, that they might on him confusion 

bring, 
Ten of the boldest joined to prove the 

thing. 
" Let us in turn to Ali go," they said, 
<; And ask if Wisdom should be sought 

instead 
Of earthly riches ; then, if he reply 
To each of us, in thought, accordantly, 
And yet to noDe, in speech or phrase, 

the same, 
His shall the honor be, and ours the 

shame." 

Now, when the first his bold demand 
did make, 

These were the words which Ali straight- 
way spake : — 

" Wisdom is the inheritance of those 
Whom Allah favors ; riches, of his 
foes." 

Unto the second he said : " Thyself 

must be 
Guard to thy wealth ; but Wisdom 

guardefch thee." 

Unto the third : " By Wisdom wealth is 

won ; 
But riches purchased wisdom yet for 

none." 

Unto the fourth : " Thy goods the thief 

may take ; 
But into Wisdom's house he cannot 

break." 

Unto the fifth : " Thy goods decrease 

the more 
Thou giv'st ; but use enlarges Wisdom's 

store." 

Unto the sixth : " Wealth tempts to evil 

ways ; 
But the desire of Wisdom is God's 

praise." 



Unto the seventh : " Divide thy wealth 

each part 
Becomes a pittance. Give with ope 1- - 

heart 



Thy wisdom, and each separate gift 

shall be 
All that thou hast, vet not impoverish 

thee." 

Unto the eight : " Wealth cannot keep 

itself ; 
But Wisdom is the steward even o' 

pelf." 

Unto the ninth : " The camels slowly 

bring 
Thy goods ; but Wisdom has the swal 

low's wing." 

And lastly, when the tenth did question 

make, 
These were the ready words which Ali 

spake : — 
" Wealth is a darkness which the soul 

should fear ; 
But Wisdom is the lamp that makes it 

clear." 

Crimson with shame the questioners 

withdrew, 
And they declared : " The Prophet's 

words were true ; 
The mouth of Ali is the golden door 
Of Wisdom." 

When his friends to Ali bore 
These words, he smiled and said : " And 

should they ask 
The same until my dying day, the task 
Were easy ; for the stream from Wis- 
dom's well, 
Which God supplies, is inexhaustible." 



AN OMENTAL IDYL. 

A silver javelin which the hills 

Have hurled upon the plain below, 
The fleetest of the Pharpar's rills. 

Beneath me shoots in flashing flow. 
I hear the never-ending laugh 

Of jostling waves that come and go, 
And suck the bubbling pipe, and quaff 

The sherbet cooled in mountain snow 

The flecks of sunshine gleam like stari 
Beneath the canopy of shade ; 



DESERT HYMN TO THE SUN. 



56 



And in the distant, dim bazaars 
I scarcely hear the hum of trade. 

No evil fear, no dream forlorn, 
Darkens my heaven of perfect blue ; 

My blood is tempered to the morn, — 
My very heart is steeped in dew. 

What Evil is I cannot tell ; 

But half I guess what Joy may be ; 
And, as a pearl within its shell, 

The happy spirit sleeps in me. 

I feel no more the pulse's strife, — 
The tides of Passion s ruddy sea, — 

But live the sweet, unconscious life 
That breathes from yonder jasmine 
tree. 

Upon the glittering pageantries 
Of gay Damascus' streets I look 

As idly as a babe that sees 
The painted pictures of a book. 

Forgotten now are name and race ; 

The Past is blotted from my brain ; 
For Memory sleeps, and will not trace 

The weary pages o'er again. 

I only know the morning shines, 
And sweet the dewy morning air ; 

But does ir play with tendrilled vines ? 
Or does it lightly lift my hair ? 

Deep-sunken in the charmed repose, 
This ignorance is bliss extreme : 

And whether I be Man, or Rose, 
Oh, pluck me not from out my dream ! 



BEDOUIN SONG. 

From the Desert I come to thee 

On a stallion shod with fire ; 
And the winds are left behind 

In the speed of my desire. 
Under thy window I stand, 

And the midnight hears my cry : 
[ love thee, I love but thee, 
With a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars W'c old, 
And the leaves, of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 

\iOok. from thy window and see 

My passion and my pain ; 
I lie on the sands below, 

And I faint in thy disdain- 



Let the night-winds to uch thy brow 

With the heat of my burning sigh, 
And melt thee to hear the vow 
Of a love that shall not die 

Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold ! 

My steps are nightly driven, 
By the fever in my breast, 
To hear from thy lattice breathed 

The word that shall give me rest. 
Open the door of thy heart, 

And open thy chamber door, 
And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
The love that shall fade no more 
Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold ! 

DESERT HYMN TO THE SUN. 

i. 

Under the arches of the morning sky, 
Save in one heart, there beats no life 
of Man ; 
The yellow sand-hills bleak and track 
less lie, 
And far behind them sleeps the cara 
van. 
A silence, as before Creation, broods 
Sublimely o'er the desert solitudes. 



A silence as if God in Heaven were still. 
And meditating some new wonder ! 

Earth 
And Air the solemn portent own, and 

thrill 
With awful prescience of the coming 

birth. 
And Night withdraws, and on their sil 

ver cars 
Wheel to remotest space the trembling 

Stars. 



See ! an increasing brightness, broad 
and fleet, 
Breaks on the morning in a rosy flood, 
As if He smiled to see His work com- 
plete, 
And rested from it, and pronounced 
it good. 



56 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



I he sands lie si'll, and every wind is 

furled : 
The Sun comes up, and looks upon the 

world. 

IV. 

Is there no burst of music to proclaim. 
The pomp and majestv of this new 
lord ? — 
\ golden trumpet in each beam of flame, 
Startling the universe with grand ac- 
cord 1 
Must Earth be dumb beneath the splen- 
dors thrown 
From his full orb to glorify her own 1 



No : with an answering splendor, more 
thm sound 
Instinct with gratulation, she adores. 

With purple flame the porphyry hills 
are crowned, 
And burn with gold the Desert's 
boundless floors ; 

And the lone Man compels his haughty 
knee, 

And, prostrate at thy footstool, wor- 
ships thee. 



Before the dreadful glory of thy face 
He veils his sight ; he fears the fiery 
rod 
Which thou dost wield amid the bright- 
ening space, 
As if the sceptre of a visible god. 
If not the shadow of God's lustre, thou 
Art the one jewel flaming on His brow. 



Wrap me within the mantle of thy 

beams, 
And feed my pulses with thy keenest 

fire! 
Here, where thy full meridian deluge 

streamy 
Across the Desert, let my blood aspire 
Fo ripen in the vigor of thy blaze, 
And catch a warmth to shine through 

darker lays! 



[ am alone before thee : Lord of Light ! 
Begetter of the life of things that live ! 



Beget in me thy calm, self balanced 

might ; 
To me thine own immortal ardor give 
Yea, though, like her who gave to Jove 

her charms, 
My being wither in thy fiery arms. 



Whence came thy splendors 1 Heaven 

is filled with thee ; 
The sky's blue walls are dazzling with 

thy train ; 
Thou sitt'st alone in the Immensity, 
And in thy lap the World grows 

young again. 
Bathed* in such brightness, drunken with 

the Day, 
He deems the Dark forever passed away. 



But thou dost sheathe thy trenchant 

sword, and lean 
With tempered grandeur towards the 

western gate ; 
Shedding thy glory with a brow serene, 
And leaving heaven all golden with. 

thy state : 
Not as a king discrowned and over 

thrown, 
But one who keeps, and shall reclaim 

his own. 



NILOTIC DRINKING SONG. 

i. 

You may water your bays, brother-poeta 
with lays 
That brighten the cup from the stream 
you doat on, 
By the Schuylkill's side, or Cochituate's 
tide, 
Or the crystal lymph of the mountain 
Croton : 

(We may pledge from these 
In our summer ease, 
Nor even Anacreon's shade revilt 
us — ) 

But I, from the flood 
Of his own brown blood, 
Will drink to the glory of ancient 
Nilus ! 



Cloud never gave birth, nor cradle th« 
Earth, 
To river so grand ami fair as this is 



NUBIA. 



57 



Not the waves that roll us the gold of 
Pactolus, 
Nor cool Cephissus, nor classic Ilissus. 
The lily may dip 
Her ivory lip 
To kiss the ripples of clear Eurotas; 
But the Nile brings balm 
From the myrrh and palm, 
And the ripe, voluptuous lips of the 
lotus. 



The waves that ride on his mighty tide 
Were poured from the urns of unvis- 
ited mountains; 
And their sweets of the South mingle 
cool in the mouth 
With the freshness and sparkle of 
Northern fountains. 
Again and again 
The goblet we drain, — 
Diviner a stream never Nereid swam 
on : 

For Isis and Orus 
Have quaffed before us, 
And Ganymede dipped it for Jupiter 
Ammon. 



Its blessing he pours o'er his thirsty 
shores, 
And floods the regions of Sleep and 
Silence, 
When he makes oases in desert places, 
And the plain is a sea, the hills are 
islands. 

And had I the brave 
Anacreon's stave, 
And lips like the honeyed lips of 
Hylas, 

I 'd dip from his brink 
My bacchanal drink, 
And sing for the glory of ancient 
Nilus ! 



CAMADEVA. 

The sun, the moon, the mystic planets 
seven, 
Shone with a purer and s^rener flame, 
Ktid there was joy on Earth and joy in 
Heaven 

When Camadeva came. 

T : e blossoms burst, like jewels of the air, 
Putting the colors of the morn to 
shame ; 



Breathing their odorous secrets every- 
where 

When Camadeva came. 

The birds, upon the tufted tamarind 
spray, 
Sat side by side and cooed in amorous 
blame ; 
The lion sheathed his claws and left his 
prey 

When Camadeva came. 

The sea slept, pillowed on the happy 
shore ; 
The mountain-peaks were bathed in 
rosy flame ; 
The clouds went down the sky, — to 
mount no more 

When Camadeva came. 

The hearts of all men brightened like 
the morn ; 
The poet's harp then first deserved its 
fame, 
For rapture sweeter than he sang was 
born 

When Camadeva came. 

All breathing life a newer spirit quaffed, 
A second life, a bliss beyond a name 
And Death, half-conquered, dropped km 
idle shaft 

When Camadeva came. 



NUBIA. 

A land of Dreams and Sleep, ■ — a pop- 
pied land ! 
With skies of endless calm above her 

head, 
The drowsy warmth of summer noonday 

shed 
Upon her hills, and silence stern and 

grand 
Throughout her Desert's temple-burying 

sand. 
Before her threshold, in their ancient 

place, 
With closed lips, and fixed, majestic face, 
Noteless of Time, her dumb colossi stand. 
Oh, pass them not with light, irreverent 

tread ; 
Respect the dream that builds her fallen 

throne, 
Ai:d soothes her to oblivion of her woes 
Hush ! for she does but sleep ; she is ik4 

dead: 



58 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



Action and Toil have made the world 

their own, 
But she hath built an altar to Eepose. 

KLLIMANDJARO. 

i. 

Haii to thee, monarch of African 

mountains, 
Remote, inaccessible, silent, and lone, — 
Who, from the heart of the tropical fer- 
vors, 
Liftest to heaven thine alien snows, 
Feeding forever the fountains that make 

thee 
Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt ! 



The years of the world are engraved on 

thy forehead ; 
Time's morning blushed red on thy 

first-fallen snows ; 
Yet, lost in the wilderness, nameless, 

unnoted, 
Of Man unbeholden, thou wert not till 

now. 
Knowledge alone is the being of Nature, 
Giving a soul to her manifold features, 
Lighting through paths of the primitive 

darkness 
The footsteps of Truth and the vision 

of Song. 
Knowledge has born thee anew to Crea- 
tion, 
And long-baffled Time at thy baptism 

rejoices. 
Take, then, a name, and be filled with 

existence, 
Yea, be exultant in sovereign glory, 
While from the hand of the wandering 

poet 
Drops the first garland of song at thy 

feet. 



Floating alone, on the flood of thy mak- 
ing, 

Through Africa's mystery, silence, and 
fire, 

Lo ! in my palm, like the Eastern en- 
chanter, 

[ dip from the waters a magical mirror, 

And thou art revealed to my purified 
vision. 

I see thee, supreme in the midst of thy 
co-mates, 



Standing alone 'twixt the Earth and the 
Heavens, 

Heir of the Sunset and Herald of Morn 

Zone above zone, to thy shoulders ol 
granite, 

The climates of Earth are displayed, as 
an index, 

Giving the scope of the Book of Crea- 
tion. 

There, in the gorges that widen, de- 
scending 

From cloud and from cold into summer 
eternal, 

Gather the threads of the ice-gendered 
fountains, — 

Gather to riotous torrents of crystal, 

And, giving each shelvy recess where 
they dally 

The blooms of the North and its ever- 
green turfage, 

Leap to the land of the lion and lotus ! 

There, in the wondering airs of the 
Tropics 

Shivers the Aspen, still dreaming of 
cold : 

There stretches the Oak, from the loft- 
iest ledges, 

His arms to the far-away lands of hi 
brothers, 

And the Pine-tree looks down on his 
rival, the Palm. 



Bathed in the tenderest purple of dis- 
tance, 
Tinted and shadowed by pencils of air, 
Thy battlements hang o'er the slopes 

and the forests, 
Seats of the Gods in the limitless ether, 
Looming sublimely aloft and afar. 
Above them, like folds of imperial 

ermine, 
Sparkle the snow- fields that furrow thy 

forehead, — 
Desolate realms, inaccessible, silent, 
Chasms and caverns where Day is a 

stranger, 
Garners where storeth his treasures the 

Thunder, 
The Lightning his falchion, his arrows 

the Hail ! 



Sovereign Mountain, thy Drothers giv« 

welcome : 
They, the baptized and the crownfed oJ 

ages, 



THE BIRTH OF THE PROPHET. 



59 



Watcl -towers of Continents, altars of 
Earth, 

Welcome thee now to their mighty as- 
sembly. 

Mont Blanc, "in the roar of his mad ava- 
lanches, 

Hails thy accession ; superb Orizaba, 

Belted with beech and ensandalled with 
palm ; 

Chimborazo, the lord of the regions of 
noonday, — 

Mingle their sounds in magnificent 
chorus 

With greeting august from the Pillars 
of Heaven, 

Who, in the urns of the Indian Ganges 

Filter the snows of their sacred domin- 
ions, 

Unmarked with a footprint, unseen but 
of God. 



Lo ! unto each is the seal of his lord- 
ship, 
Nor questioned the right that his maj- 
esty give^h : 
Each in his lawtul supremacy forces 
Worship and reverence, wonder and joy. 
Absolute all, yet in dignity varied, 
None has a claim to the honors of story, 
Or the superior splendors of song, 
Greater than thou, in thy mystery 

mantled, — 
Thou, the sole monarch of African 

mountains, 
Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt ! 



THE BIRTH OF THE PROPHET. 



Thrice three moons had waxed in 
heaven, thrice three moons had 
waned away, 

Sinca Abdullah, faint and thirsty, on 
the Desert's bosom lay 

In the fiery lap of Summer, the meri- 
dian of the day ; — 



Since from out the sand upgushing, lo ! 

a sudden fountain leapt ; 
Sweet as musk and clear as amber, to 

bis parching lips it crept. 
When he drank it straightway vanishea, 

but his blood its virtue kept. 



Ere the morn his forehead's lustre, signet 
of th% Prophet's line, 

To the beauty of Amina had trans- 
ferred its flame divine ; 

Of the germ within her sleeping, such 
the consecrated sign. 



And with every moon that faded waxed 
the splendor more and more, 

Till Amina's beauty lightened through 
the matron veil she wore, 

And the tent was filled with glory, and 
of Heaven it seemed the door. 



When her quickened womb its burden 
had matured, and Life began 

Struggling in its living prison, through 
the wide Creation rang 

Premonitions of the coming of a God- 
appointed man. 



For the oracles of Nature recognize a 
Prophet's birth, — 

Blossom of the tardy ages, crowning 
type of human worth, — 

And by miracles and wonders he is wel- 
comed to the Earth. 



Then the stars in heaven grew brighter, 

stooping downward from their 

zones ; 
Wheeling round the towers of Mecca, 

sang the moon in silver tones, 
And the Kaaba's grisly idols trembled 

on their granite thrones. 



Mighty arcs of rainbow splendor, pil- 
lared shafts of purple fire, 

Split the sky and spanned the darkness, 
and with many a golden spire, 

Beacon-Like, from all the mountains 
streamed the larrbent meteor? 
higher. 



Bo when first the breath of being ta 
th> sacred infant came. 



60 



'OEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



Paled the pomp of airy lustre, and the 
stars grew dim with shame, 

For the glory of his countenance out- 
shone their feebler flame. 



Over Nedjid's sands it lightened, unto 

Oman's coral deep, 
Startling all the gorgeous regions of the 

Orient from sleep, 
Till, a sun on night new-risen, it illumed 

the Indian steep. 



They who dwelt in Mecca's borders saw 
the distant realms appear 

All around the vast horizon, shining 
marvellous and clear, 

From the gardens of Damascus unto 
those of Bendemeer. 



From the colonnades of Tadmor to the 

hills of Hadramaut, 
Ancient Araby was lighted, and her 

sands the splendor caught, 
Till the magic sweep of vision overtook 

the track of Thought. 



Such on Earth the wondrous glory, but 
beyond the sevenfold skies 

God His mansions filled with gladness, 
and the seraphs saw arise 

Palaces of pearl and ruby from the 
founts of Paradise. , 



As the surge of heavenly anthems shook 
the solemn midnight air, 

From the shrines of false religions came 
a wailing of despair, 

And the fires on Pagan altars were ex- 
tinguished everywhere. 



Mid the sounds of salutation, 'mid the 

splendor and the balm, 
Knelt the sacred child, proclaiming, with 

a brow of heavenly calm : 
' God is God ; there is none other ; I 

his chosen Prophet am ! " 



TO THE NILE. 

Mysterious Flood, — that through tht 
silent sands 
Hast wandered, century on century, 
Watering the length of great Egyptian 
lands, 

Which were not, but for thee,- 

Art thou the keeper of that eldest lort 
Written ere yet thy hieroglyphs began 
When dawned upon thy fresh, untram- 
pled shore 

The earliest life of Man 1 

Thou guardest temple and vast pyramid 
Where the gray Past records its an- 
cient speech ; 
But in thine unrevealing breast lies hid 
What they refuse to teach. 

All other streams with human joys and 
fears 
Run blended, o'er the plains of His- 
tory : 
Thou tak'st no note of Man ; a thousand 
years 

Are as a day to thee. 

What were to thee the Osirian festivals ? 
Or Memnon's music on the Theban 
plain ? 
The carnage, when Cambyses made thy 
halls 

Ruddy with royal slain 1 

Even then thou wast a God, and shrines 
were built 
For worship of thine own majestic 
flood; 
For thee the incense burned, — for thee 
was spilt 

The sacrificial blood. 

And past the bannered pylons that aro^e 
Above thy palms, the pageantry an*.' 
state, 
Thy current flowed, calmly as now ii 
flows, 

Unchangeable as Fate. 

Thou givest blessing as a God might give. 
Whose being is his '"ounty : from the 
slime 
Shaken from off thy skirts the nationi 
live, 

Through all the years of Time 



CHARMIAN. 



61 



[n thy solemnity, thine awful calm, 

Thy grand indifference of Destiny, 
My soul forgets its pain, and drinks the 
balm 

Which thou dost proffer me. 

Thy godship is unquestioned still : I bring" 
No doubtful worship to thy shrine su- 
preme ; 
But thus my homage as a chaplet fling, 
To float upon thy stream ! 



HASSAN TO HIS MARE. 

Come, my beauty ! come, my desert 
darling ! 
On my shoulder lay thy glossy head ! 
Fear not, though the barley-sack be 
empty, 
Here 's the half of Hassan's scanty 
bread. 

Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my 
^auty ! 
And thou know'st my water-skin is 
free : 
Drink and welcome, for the wells are 
distant, 
And my strength and safety lie in thee. 

Bend thy forehead now, to take my 

kisses ! 

Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye : 

Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the 

saddle, — 

Thou art proud he owns thee : so am I. 

Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses, 
Prancing with their diamond-studded 
reins ; 
They, my darling, shall not match thy 
fleetness 
When they course with thee the des- 
ert-plains ! 

Let the Sultan bring his famous horses, 

Let him bring his golden swords to 

me, — 

Bring his slaves, his eunuchs, and his 

harem ; 

He would offer them in vain for thee. 

We have seen Damascus, my beauty ! 

And the splendor of the Pashas there : 
What 's their pomp and riches ? Why, 
I would not 

Take them for a handful of thy hair ! 



Khaled sings the praises of his mistress, 
And, because I 've none, he pities me : 
What care I if he should have a thou- 
sand, 
Fairer than the morning 1 1 have 
thee. 

He will find his passion growing cooler, 
Should her glance on other suitors 
fall ; 
Thou wilt ne'er, my mistress and my 
darling, 
Pail to answer at thy master's call. 

By and by some snow-white Nedjid stal- 
lion 
Shall to thee his spring-time ardor 
bring ; 
And a foal, the fairest of the Desert, 
To thy milky dugs shall crouch and 
cling. 

Then, when Khaled shows to me his 
children, 
I shall laugh, and bid him look at 
thine ; 
Thou wilt neigh, and lovingly caress me, 
With thy glossy neck laid close to 
mine. 



CHARMIAN. 



Daughter of the Sun ; 

Who gave the keys of passion unto thee 1 
Who taught the powerful sorcery 
AVherein my soul, too willing to be won, 
Still feebly struggles to be free, 
But more than half undone ? 
Within the mirror of thine eyes, 
Full of the sleep of warm Egyptian 

skies, — 
The sleep of lightning, bound in airy 

spell, 
And deadlier, because invisible, — 

1 see the reflex of a feeling 

Which was not, till I looked on thee : 
A power, involved in mystery, 
That shrinks, affrighted, from its owl 
revealing. 



Thou sitt'st in stately indolence, 

Too calm to feel a breath of passion 

start 
The listless fibres of thy sense, 
The fiery slumber of thy heart. 



62 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



Thine eyes are wells of darkness, by the 
veil 

Of languid lids half-sealed : the pale 

And bloodless olive of thy face, 

And the full, silent, lips that wear 

A ripe serenity of grace, 

Are dark beneath the shadow of thy 
hair. 

Not from the brow of templed Athor 
beams 

Such tropic warmth along the path of 
dreams ; 

Not from the lips of horned Isis flows 

Such sweetness of repose ! 

For thou art Passion's self, a goddess 
too, 

And aught but worship never knew ; 

And thus thy glances, calm and sure, 

Look for accustomed homage, and be- 
tray 

No effort to assert thy sway : 

Thou deem'st my fealty secure. 



Sorceress ! those looks unseal 
The undisturbed mysteries that press 
Too deep in nature for the heart to 

feel 
Their terror and their loveliness. 
Thine eyes are torches that illume 
On secret shrines their unforeboded fires, 
And fill the vaults of silence and of 

gloom 
With the unresting life of new desires. 

1 follow where their arrowy ray 
Pierces the veil I would not tear away, 
And with a dread, delicious awe behold 
Another gate of life unfold, 

Like the rapt neophyte who sees 

Some march of grand Osirian mysteries. 

The startled chambers I explore, 

And every entrance open lies, 

Forced by the magic thrill that runs be- 
fore 

Thy slowly-lifted eyes. 

I tremble to the centre of my being 

Thus to confess the spirit's poise o'er- 
thrown, 

And all its guiding virtues blown 

Like leaves before the whirlwind's fury 
fleeing. 



Bat see ! one memory rises in my 

soul, 
And, beaming steadily and clear, 



Scatters the lurid thunder-clouds that 

roll 
Through Passion's sultry atmosphere. 
An alchemy more potent borrow 
For thy dark eyes, enticing Sorcet 

ess ! 
For on the casket of a sacred Sor* 

row 
Their shafts fall powerless. 
Nay, frown not, Athor, from thy mystic 

shrine : 
Strong Goddess of Desire, I will not 

be 
One of the myriad slaves thou callest 

thine, 
To cast my manhood's crown of roy- 
alty 
Before thy dangerous beauty : I am 

free ! 



SMYRNA. 

The " Ornament of Asia " and the 

" Crown 
Of fair Ionia." Yea ; but Asia stands 
No more an empress, and Ionia's hands 
Have lost their sceptre. Thou, majestic 

town, 
Art as a diamond on a faded robe : 
The freshness of thy beauty scatters 

yet 
The radiance of that sun of Empire 

set, 
Whose disk sublime illumed the ancient 

globe. 
Thou sitt'st between the mountains and 

the sea ; 
The sea and mountains flatter thine 

array, 
And fill thy courts with Grandeur, not 

Decay ; 
And Power, not Death, proclaims thy 

cypress tree. 
Through thee, the sovereign symbols 

Nature lent 
Her rise, make Asia's fall magnificent. 



TO A PERSIAN BOY, 

IN THE BAZAAR AT SMYRNA. 

The gorgeous blossoms of that magi* 

tree 
Beneath whose shade I sat a thousand 

nights, 



AURUM POTABILE. 



Broathed from their opening petals all 

delights 
Embalmed in spice of Orient Poesy, 
When first, young Persian, I beheld 

thine eyes, 
And felt the wonder of thy beauty grow 
Within my braiu, as some fair planet's 

glow 
Deepens, and fills the summer evening 

skies. 
From under thy dark lashes shone on 

me 
The rich, voluptuous soul of Eastern 

land, 
Impassioned, tender, calm, serenely 

sad, — 
Such as immortal Hafiz felt when he 
Sang by the fountain-streams of Roc- 

nabad, 
Or in the bowers of blissful Samarcand. 



THE ARAB TO THE PALM. 

Next to thee, fair gazelle, 

Beddowee girl, beloved so well ; 

Next to the fearless Nedjidee, 
Whose fleetness shall bear me again to 
thee; 

Next to ye both I love the Palm, 
With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of 
balm; 

Next to ye both I love the Tree 
Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three 
With love, and silence, and mystery 1 

Our tribe is many, our poets vie 

With any under "the Arab sky ; 

Yet none can sing of the Palm but I. 

The marble minarets that begem 

Cairo's citadel-diadem 

Are not so light as his slender stem. 

le lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's 

glance 
*s the Almehs lift their arms in 

dance, — 

\ slumberous motion, a passionate sign, 
That works in the cells of the blood like 



Full of passion and sorrow is he, 
breaming where the beloved may be. 



And when the warm south-winds arise, 
He breathes his longing in fervid 
sighs, — 

Quickening odors, kisses of balm, 
That drop in the lap of his chosen palm. 

The sun may flame and the sands may 

stir, 
But the breath of his passion reach?* 

her. 

O Tree of Love, by that love of thiD», 
Teach me how I shall soften mine ! 

Give me the secret of the sun, 
Whereby the wooed is ever won ! 

If I were a King, O stately Tree, 
A likeness, glorious as might be, 
In the court of my palace I'd build 
for thee ! 

With a shaft of silver, burnished bright, 
And leaves of beryl and malachite ; 

With spikes of golden bloom ablaze, 
And fruits of topaz and chryso prase : 

And there the poets, in thy praise, 
Should night and morning frame new 
lays, — 

New measures sung to tunes divine ; 
But none, O Palm, should equal mine ! 



AURUM POTABILE. 



Brother Bards of every region, — 
Brother Bards, (your name is Legion ! 
Were you with me while the twilight 
Darkens up my pine-tree skylight, — 
Were you gathered, representing 

Every land beneath the sun, 
Oh, what songs would be indited, 
Ere the earliest star is lighted, 
To the praise of vino d'oro. 

On the Hills of Lebanon i 



Yes ; while all alone I quaff its 
Lucid gold, and brightly laugh its 
Topaz waves and amber bubbles, 
Still the thought my pleasure trouble* 
That I quaff it all alone 



64 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



Oh for Hafiz, — glorious Persian ! 
Keats, with buoyant, gay diversion 
Mocking Schiller's grave immersion ; 

Oh for wreathed Anacreon ! 
Yet enough to have the living, — 
They, the few, the rapture-giving ! 
(Blessed more than in receiving,) 
Fate, that frowns when laurels wreathe 

them, 
Once the solace might bequeath them, 
Once to taste of vino d'oro 

On the Hills of Lebanon ! 



Lebanon, thou mount of story, 
Well we know thy sturdy glory, 

Since the days of Solomon ; 
Well we know the Five old Cedars, 
Scarred by ages, — silent pleaders, 
Preaching, in their gray sedateness, 
Of thy forest's fallen greatness, 
Of the vessels of the Tyrian, 
And the palaces Assyrian, 
And the temple on Moriah 

To the High and Holy One ! - 
Know the wealth of thy appointment, ■ 
Myrrh and aloes, gum and ointment ; 
But we knew not, till we clomb thee, 
Of the nectar dropping from thee, — 
Of the pure, pellucid Ophir 
In the cups of vino d'oro, 

On the Hills of Lebanon ! 



We have drunk, and we have eaten, 
Where Egyptian sheaves are beaten ; 
Tasted Judah's milk and honey 
On his mountains, bare and sunny ; 
Drained ambrosial bowls, that ask us 
Never more to leave Damascus ; 
And have sung a vintage paean 
To the grapes of isles iEgean, 
And the flasks of Orvieto, 

Eipened in the Eoman sun : 
But the liquor here surpasses 
All that beams in earthly glasses. 
'T is of this that Paracelsus 
'His elixir vitae) tells us, 
That to happier shores can float us 
Than Lethean stems of lotus, 
And the vigor of the morning 

Straight restores when day is done. 
Then, before the sunset waneth, 
While the rosy tide, that staineth 
Earth, and sky, and sea, remaineth, 
We will take the fortune proffered, — 



Ne'er again to be re-offered, 
We will drink of vino d'oro, 

On the Hills of Lebanon ! 
Vino d'oro ! vino d'oro ! — 

Golden blood of Lebanon ! 



ON THE SEA. 

The splendor of the sinking moon 

Deserts the silent bay ; 
The mountain-isles loom large and faint, 

Folded in shadows gray, 
And the lights of land are setting stars 

That soon will pass away. 

boatman, cease thy mellow song ! 

minstrel, drop thy lyre ! 
Let us hear the voice of the midnight 
sea, 
Let us speak as the waves inspire, 
While the plashy dip of the languid 
oar 
Is a furrow of silver fire. 

Day cannot make thee half so fair, 
Nor the stars of eve so dear : 

The arms that clasp and the breast that 
keeps, 
They tell me thou art near, 

And the perfect beauty of thy face 
In thy murmured words I hear. 

The lights of land have dropped below 
The vast and glimmering sea ; 

The world we leave is a tale that «a 
told, — 
A fable, that cannot be. 

There is no life in the sphery dark 
But the love in thee and me ! 



TYRE. 



The wild and windy morning is lit with 

lurid fire ; 
The thundering surf of ocean beats on 

the rocks of Tyre, — 
Beats on the fallen columns and round 

the headland roars, 
And hurls its foamy volume along the 

hollow shores, 
And calls with hungry clamor, that 

speaks its long desire : 
" Where are the ships of Tarshish, tha 

mighty ships of Tyre * " 



L ENVOI. 



65 



II. 

Within her cunning harbor, choked with 
invading sand, 

No galleys bring their freightage, the 
spoils of every land, 

And like a prostrate forest, when au- 
tumn gales have blown, 

Her colonnades of granite lie shattered 
and o'erthrown ; 

And from the reef the pharos no longer 
flings its fire, 

To beacon home from Tarshish the 
lordly ships of Tyre. 



Where is thy rod of empire, once mighty 

on the waves, — 
Thou that thyself exalted, till Kings 

became thy slaves ? 
Thou that didst speak to nations, and 

saw thy will obeyed, — 
Whose favor made them joyful, whose 

anger sore afraid, — 
Who laid'st thy deep foundations, and 

thought them strong and sure, 
And boasted midst the waters, Shall I 

not aye endure ? 



Where is the wealth of ages that heaped 
thy princely mart 1 

The pomp of purple trappings ; the 
gems of Syrian art ; 

The silken goats of Kedar; Sabaea's 
spicy store ; 

The tributes of the islands thy squad- 
rons homeward bore, 

When in thy gates triumphant they 
entered from the sea 

With sound of horn and sackbut, of 
harp and psaltery ? 



IK wl, howl, ye ships of Tarshish ! the 

glory is laid waste : 
There is no habitation ; the mansions 

are defaced. 
No mariners of Sidon unfurl your 

mighty sails ; 
No workmen fell the fir-trees that grow 

in Shenir's vales 
And Bashan's oaks that boasted a 

thousand years of sun, 
Dr hew the masts of cedar on frosty 

Lebanon. 

ft 



Rise, thou forgotten harlot ! take up thy 

harp and sing : 
Call the rebellious islands to own their 

ancient king : 
Bare to the spray thy bosom, and with 

thy hair unbound, 
Sit on the piles of ruin, thou thronelesa 

and discrowned ! 
There mix thy voice of wailing with the 

thunders of the sea, 
And sing thy songs of sorrow, that thon 

remembered be ! 



Though silent and forgotten, yet Nature 

still laments 
The pomp and power departed, the lost 

magnificence : 
The hills were proud to see thee, and 

they are sadder now ; 
The sea was proud to bear thee, and 

wears a troubled brow, 
And evermore the surges chant forth 

their vain desire : 
" Where are the ships of Tarshish, tha 

mighty ships of Tyre ? " 



AN ANSWER. 

You call me cold : you wonder why 
The marble of a mien like mine 

Gives fiery sparks of Poesy, 
Or softens at Love's touch divine. 

Go, look on Nature, you will find 
It is the rock that feels the sun : 

But you are blind, — and to the blind 
The touch of ice and fire is one. 



L'ENVOI. 

Unto the Desert and the Desert steed 
Farewell ! The journey is completed 
now : 
Struck are the tents of Ishmael's wan- 
dering breed, 
And I unwind the turban from my 
brow. 

The sun has ceased to shine ; the palms 
that bent, 
Inebriate with light, have disau- 
peared ; 



66 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 



And naught is left me of the Orient 
But the tanned hosom and the un- 
shorn beard. 

Yet from that life my blood a glow re- 
tains, 
As the red sunshine in the ruby 
glows ; 
These songs are echoes of its fiercer 
strains, — 
Dreams, that recall its passion and 
repose. 

I found, among those Children of the 
Sun, 
The cipher of my nature, — the re- 
lease 
Of baffled powers, which else had never 
won 
That free fulfilment, whose reward is 
peace. 

For not to any race or any clime 
Is the completed sphere of life re- 
vealed ; 

He who would make his own that round 
sublime, 



Must pitch his tent on many a distant 
field. 

Upon his home a dawning lustre beams. 
But through the world he walks to 
open day, 
Gathering from every land the prismal 
gleams, 
Which, when united, form the perfect 
ray. 

Go, therefore, Songs ! — which in the 
East were born 
And drew your nurture — from your 
sire's control : 
Haply to wander through the West 
forlorn, 
Or find a shelter in some Orient 
soul. 

And if the temper of our colder sky 
Less warmth of passion and of speech 
demands, 
They are the blossoms of my life, — 
and I 
Have ripened in the suns of man* 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



GEORGE H. BOKER. 

To you the homage of this book I bring. 

The earliest and the latest flowers I yieM, 

And though their hues betray a barren fiela, 
X know you will not slight the offering. 
You were the mate of my poetic spring ; 

To you its buds of little worth concealed 

More than the summer years have since revealst 
Or doubtful autumn from the stem shall fling. 

But here they are, the buds, the blossoms blows 
If rich or scant, the wreath is at your feet ; 

And though it were the freshest ever grown, 
To you its incense could not be more sweet, 

Since with it goes a love to match your own, 
A heart, dear Friend, that never falsely beat. 



E0MA1ST0ES AND LYEICS. 



PORPHYROGENITUS. 



Born in the purple ! born in the purple ! 

Heir to the sceptre and crown ! 
Lord over millions and millions of vas- 
sals, — 
Monarch of mighty renown ! 
Where, do you ask, are my banner- 
proud castles ? 
Where my imperial town 1 



Where are the ranks of my far-flashing 
lances, — 
Trumpets, courageous of sound, — 
Galloping squadrons and rocking ar- 
madas, 
Guarding my kingdom around 1 
Where are the pillars that blazon my 
borders, 
Threatening the alien ground ? 



in. 

if you 



wear not the 



\ ainly you ask, 
purple, 
Sceptre and diadem own ; 
Ruling, yourself, over prosperous re- 
gions. 
Seated supreme on your throne. 
Subjects have nothing to give but alle- 
giance : 
Monarchs meet monarchs alone. 



But, if a king, j t ou shall stand on my 
ramparts, 

Look on the lands that I sway, 
Number the domes of magnificent cities, 

Shining in valleys away, — 



Number the mountains whose foreheadi 
are golden, 
Lakes that are azure with day. 



"Whence I inherited such a dominion ? 

What was my forefathers' line ? 
Homer and Sophocles, Pindar and 
Sappho, 
First were anointed divine : 
Theirs were the realms that a god 
might have governed, 
Ah, and how little is mine ! 



Hafiz in Orient shared with Petrarca 
Thrones of the East and the 
West ; 
Shakespeare succeeded to limitless em- 
pire, 
Greatest of monarchs, and best : 
Few of his children inherited king- 
doms, 
Provinces only, the rest. 



Keats has his vineyards, and Shelley 
his islands ; 
Coleridge in Xanadu reigns ; 
Wordsworth is eyried aloft on the mount- 
ains, 
Goethe has mountains and plains ; 
Yet, though the world has been par- 
celled among them, 
A world, to be parcelled remains. 

VIII. 

Blessing enough to be born in the 
purple, 
Though but a monaich in name, - 



70 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



Though in the desert my palace is 
builded, 
Far from the highways of Fame : 
Dp with my standards ! salute me with 
trumpets ! 
Crown me with regal acclaim ! 



METEMPSYCHOSIS OF THE 
PINE. 

As when the haze of some wan moon- 
light makes 
Familiar fields a land of mystery, 
Where, chill and strange, a ghostly pres- 
ence wakes 
In flower, and bush, and tree, — 

Another life, the life of Day o'erwhelms ; 
The Past from present consciousness 
takes hue, 
And we remember vast and cloudy 
realms 
Our feet have wandered through : 

So, oft, some moonlight of the mind 
makes dumb 
The stir of outer thought : wide open 
seems 
The gate wherethrough strange sympa- 
thies have come, 
The secret of our dreams ; 

The source of fine impressions, shooting 
deep 
Below the failing plummet of the 
sense ; 
Which strike beyond all Time, and back- 
ward sweep 
Through all intelligence. 

We touch the lower life of beast and 
clod, 
And the long process of the ages see 
From blind old Chaos, ere the breath of 
God 
Moved it to harmony. 

All outward wisdom yields to that 
within, 
"Whereof nor creed nor canon holds 
the key ; 
We only fee! that we have ever been, 
And evermore shall be. 

And thus I know, by memories unfurled 
In rarer moods, and many a nameless 
sign, 



That once in Time, and somewhere in 
the world, 
I was a towering Pine, 

Booted upon a cape that over -lung 
The entrance to a mountain gorge 
whereon 
The wintry shadow of a peak was 
flung, 
Long after rise of sun. 

Behind, the silent snows; and wide be- 
low, 
The rounded hills made level, lessen- 
ing down 
To where a river washed with sluggish 
flow 
A many-templed town. 

There did I clutch the granite with firm 
feet, 
There shake my boughs above the 
roaring gulf, 
When mountain whirlwinds through the 
passes beat, 
And howled the mountain wolf. 

There did I louder sing than all the 
floods 
Whirled in white foam above the 
precipice, 
And the sharp sleet that stung the naked 
woods 
Answer with sullen hiss : 

But when the peaceful clouds rose white 
and high 
On blandest airs that April skies 
could bring, 
Through all my fibres thrilled the ten- 
der sigh, 
The sweet unrest of Spring. 

She, with warm fingers laced in mine, 
did melt 
In fragrant balsam my reluctant 
blood ; 
And with a smart of keen delight I 
felt 
The sap in every bud, 

And tingled through my rough old bark, 
and fast 
Pushed out the younger green, that 
smoothed my tones, 
W r hen last year's needles to the wind ] 
cast, 
And shed my scaly cones. 



METEMPSYCHOSIS OF THE PINE. 



71 



I held the eagle till the mountain mist 
Rolled from the azure paths he came 
to soar, 
And like a hunter, on my gnarled wrist 
The dappled falcon bore. 

Poised o'er the blue abyss, the morning 
lark 
Sang, wheeling near in rapturous ca- 
rouse ; 
And hirt and hind, soft-pacing through 
the dark, 
Slept underneath my boughs. 

Down on the pasture slopes the herds- 
man lay, 
And for the flock his birchen trumpet 
blew ; 
There ruddy children tumbled in their 
play, 
And lovers came to woo. 

And once an army, crowned with tri- 
umph, came 
Out of the hollow bosom of the gorge, 
With mighty banners in the wind aflame, 
Borne on a glittering surge 

Of tossing spears, a flood that homeward 
rolled, 
While cymbals timed their steps of 
victory, 
And horn and clarion from their throats 
of gold 
Sang with a savage glee. 

[ felt the mountain walls below me 
shake, 
Vibrant with sound, and through my 
branches poured 
The glorious gust : my song thereto did 
make 
Magnificent accord. 

Some blind harmonic instinct pierced 
the rind 
Of that slow life which made me 
straight and high, 
And I became a harp for every wind, 
A voice for every sty ; 

When fierce autumnal gales began to 
blow, 
Roaring all day in concert hoarse 
and deep ; 
\nd then made silent with my weight 
of snow — 
A spectre on the steep ; 



Filled with a whispering gush, like that 
which flows 
Through organ-stops, when sank the 
sun's red disk 
Beyond the city, and in blackness rose 
Temple and obelisk ; 

Or breathing soft, as one who sigis in 
prayer, 
Mysterious sounds of portent and of 
might, 
What time I felt the wandering warei 
of air 
Pulsating through the night. 

And thus for centuries my rhythmic 
chant 
Rolled down the gorge, or surged 
about the hill : 
Gentle, or stern, or sad, or jubilant, 
At every season's will. 

No longer Memory whispers whence 
arose 
The doom that tore me from my place 
of pride : 
Whether the storms that load the peak 
with snows, 
And start the mountain-slide, 

Let fall a fiery bolt to smite my 
top, 
Upwrenched my roots, and o'er the 
precipice 
Hurled me, a dangling wreck, erelong 
to drop 
Into the wild abyss; 

Or whether hands of men, with scorn- 
ful strength 
And force from Nature's rugged 
armory lent, 
Sawed through my heart and rolled my 
tumbling length 
Sheer down the steep descent. 

All sense departed, with the boughs 1 
wore ; 
And though I moved with mighty 
gales at strife, 
A mast upon the seas, I sang no more, 
And music was my life. 

Yet still that life awakens, brings again 

Its airy anthems, resonant and long, 
Till Earth and Sky, transfigured, fill my 
brain 
With rhythmic sweeps of song. 



72 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



Thence am I made a poet : thence are 
sprung 
Those shadowy motions of the soul, 
that reach 
Beyond all grasp of Art, — for which 
the tongue 
Is ignorant of speech. 

And if some wild, full-gathered har- 
mony 
Roll its unbroken music through my 
line, 
There lives and murmurs, faintly 
though it be, 
The Spirit of the Pine. 



THE VINEYARD-SAINT. 

She, pacing down the vineyard walks, 
Put back the branches, one by one, 

Stripped the dry foliage from the stalks, 
And gave their bunches to the sun. 

On fairer hillsides, looking south, 
The vines were brown with cankerous 
rust, 
The earth was hot with summer drouth, 
And all the grapes Avere dim with 
dust. 

Yet here some blessed influence rained 
From kinder skies, the season 
through ; 

On every bunch the bloom remained, 
And every leaf was washed in dew. 

I saw her blue eyes, clear and calm ; 

I saw the aureole of her hair ; 
. heard her chant some unknown psalm, 

In triumph half, and half in prayer. 

' Hail, maiden of the vines ! " I cried : 
" Hail, Oread of the purple hill ! 

For vineyard fauns too fair a bride, 
For me thy cup of welcome fill ! 

' Unlatch the wicket ; let me in, 
And, sharing, make thy toil more 
dear : 

^o riper vintage holds the bin 
Than that our feet shall trample here. 

' Beneath thy beauty's light I glow, 
As in the sun those grapes of thine : 

".'ouch thou mv heart with love, and 
lo! 
The foaming must is turned to wine ! " 



She, pausing, stayed ler careful task, 
And, 1 if tins: eyes of steady ray, 

Blew, as a wind the mountain's ma>k 
Of mist, my cloudy words away. 

No troubled flush o'erran her cheek ; 

But when her quiet lips did stir, 
My heart knelt down to hear her speak 

And mine the blush I sought in her. 

" Oh, not for me," she said, " the vow 
So lightly breathed, to break ereloug 

The vintage-garland on the brow ; 
The revels of the dancing throng ! 

" To maiden love I shut my heart, 
Yet none the less a stainless bride ; 

I work alone, I dwell apart, 
Because my work is sanctified. 

"A virgin hand must tend the vine, 
By virgin feet the vat be trod, 

Whose consecrated gush of wine 
Becomes the blessed blood of God ! 

" No sinful purple here shall stain. 

Nor juice profane these grapes afford 
But reverent lips their sweetness drain 

Around the Table of the Lord. 

" The cup I fill, of chaster gold, 
Upon the lighted altar stands; 

There, when the gates of heaven unfold 
The priest exalts it in his hands. 

" The censer yields adoring breath, 
The awful anthem sinks and dies, 

While God, who suffered life and death 
Renews His ancient sacrifice. 

" sacred garden of the vine ! 

And blessed she, ordained to press 
God's chosen vintage, for the wine 

Of pardon and of holiness ! " 



HYLAS. 

Storm-wearied Argo slept upon the 

water. 
No cloud was seen ; on blue and craggy 

Ida 
The hot noon lay, and on the plain'g 

enamel ; 
Cool, in his bed, alone, the swift S^a 

mander. 
" Why should I haste 1 " said young and 

rosy Hylas : 



HYLAS. 



* The seas were rough, and long the 
way from Colchia. 

Beneath the snow-white awning slum- 
bers Jason, 

Pillowed upon his tame Thessalian pan- 
ther; 

The shields are piled, the listless oars 
suspended 

On the black thwarts, and all the hairy- 
bondsmen 

1 ^oze on the benches. They may wait 
for water, 

Till I have bathed in mountain-born 
Scamander." 

So said, unfilleting his purple chla- 

mys, 
And putting down his urn, he stood a 

moment, 
Breathing the isAUt, warm odor of the 

blossoms 
That spangled thick the lovely Dardan 

meadows. 
Then, stooping lightly, loosened he his 

buskins, 
And felt with shrinking feet the crispy 

verdure, 
Naked, save one light robe that from 

his shoulder 
Hung to his knee, the youthful flush 

revealing 
Of warm, white limbs, half-nerved with 

coming manhood, 
Vet fair and smooth with tenderness of 

beauty. 
Now to the river's sandy marge advanc- 
ing, 
He dropped the robe, and raised his 

head exulting 
In the clear sunshine, that with beam 

embracing 
Held him against Apollo's glowing 

bosom. 
For sacred to Latona's son is Beauty, 
Sacred is Youth, the joy of youthful 

feeling. 
A joy indeed, a living joy, was Hylas, 
Whence Jove-begotten Heracles, the 

mighty, 
To men though terrible, to him was 

gentle, 
Smoothing his rugged nature into 

laughter 
When the boy stole his club, or from 

his shoulders 
Dragged the huge paws of the Nemsean 

lion. 



The thick, brown locks, tossed back 
ward from his forehead, 

Fell s.tft about his temples ; manhood's 
blossom 

Not yet had sprouted on his chin, but 
freshly 

Curved the fair cheek, and full the ^ed 
lips, parting, 

Like a loose bow, that just has launched 
its arrow. 

His large blue eyes, with joy dilate and 
beamy, 

Were clear as the unshadowed Grecian 
heaven ; 

Dewy and sleek his dimpled shoulders 
rounded 

To the white arms and whiter breast 
between them. 

Downward, the supple lines had less of 
softness : 

His back was like a god's; his loins 
were moulded 

As if some pulse of power began to 
waken ; 

The springy fulness of his thighs, out- 
swerving, 

Sloped to his knee, and, lightly drop- 
ping downward, 

Drew the curved lines that breathe, In 
rest, of motion. 

He saw his g^rious limbs reversely 

mirrored 
In the still wave, and stretched his foot 

to press it 
On the smooth sole that answered at 

the surface : 
Alas ! the shape dissolved in glimmer- 
ing fragments. 
Then, timidly at first, he dipped, and 

catching 
Quick breath, with tingling shudder, as 

the waters 
Swirled round his thighs > and deepoi , 

slowly deeper, 
Till on his breast the River's cheek waa 

pillowed, 
And deeper still, till every shorewaid 

ripple 
Talked in his ear, and like a cygnet's 

bosom 
His white, round shoulder shed the 

dripping crystal. 
There, as he floated, with a rapturous 

motion, 
The lucid coolness folding close around 

him, 



?4 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



The lily-cradling ripples murmured, Within the glimmering ca*'es of Ocean 



"Hylas!' 
He shook from off his ears the hyacin- 

thine 
Curls, that had lain unwet upon the 

water, 
And still the ripples murmured, " Hylas ! 

Hylas ! " 
He thought : " The voices are but ear- 
born music. 
Pan dwells not here, and Echo still is 

calling 
From some high cliff that tops a Thra- 

cian valley : 
So long mine ears, on tumbling Helles- 

pontus, 
Have heard the sea waves hammer 

Argo's forehead, 
That I misdeem the fluting of this cur- 
rent 
For some lost nymph — " Again the 

murmur, " Hylas ! " 
And with the sound a cold, smooth arm 

around him 
Slid like a wave, and down the clear, 

green darkness 
Glimmered on either side a shining 

bosom, — 
Simmered, uprising slow ; and ever 

closer 
Wound the cold arms, till, climbing to 

his shoulders, 
Their cheeks lay nestled, while the pur- 
ple tangles 
Their loose hair made, in silken mesh 

enwound him. 
Their eyes of clear, pale emerald then 

uplifting, 
They kissed his neck with lips of humid 

coral, 
And once again there came a murmur, 

" Hylas ! 
Oh, coine with us ! Oh, follow where 

we wander 
Deep down beneath the green, translu- 
cent ceiling, — 
Where on the sandy bed of old Sca- 

mander 
With cool white buds we braid our 

purple tresses, 
Lulled by the bubbling waves around us 

stealing ! 
Thou fair Greek boy, Oh, come with us ! 

Oh, follow 
Where thou no more shalt hear Propon- 

tis riot, 
Bat by our arms be lapped in endless 

quiet, 



hollow ! 

We have no love ; alone, of all the Im- 
mortals, 

We have no love. Oh, love us, we who 
press thee 

With faithful arms, though cold, — 
whose lips caress thee, — 

Who hold thy beauty prisoned ! Lo\ e 
us, Hylas ! " 

The boy grew chill to feel their twining 

pressure 
Lock round his limbs, and bear hi n, 

vainly striving, 
Down from the noonday brightness. 

" Leave me, Naiads ! 
Leave me ! " he cried ; " the day to me 

' is dearer 
Than all your caves deep-sphered in 

Ocean's quiet. 
I am but mortal, seek but mortal pleas- 
ure: 
I would not change this flexile, warm 

existence, 
Though swept by storms, and shocked 

by Jove's dread thunder, 
To be a king beneath the dark-green 

waters.' f 
Still moaned the humid lips, between 

their kisses, 
" We have no love. Oh, love us, we 

who love thee ! " 
And came in answer, thus, the words of 

Hylas : 
" My love is mortal. For the Argive 

maidens 
I keep the kisses which your lips would 

ravish. 
Unlock your cold white arms, — take 

from my shoulder 
The tangled swell of your bewildering 

tresses. 
Let me return : the wind comes down 

from Ida, 
And soon the galley, stirring from her 

slumber, 
Will fret to ride where Pelion's twilight 

shadow 
Fells o'er the towers of Jason's sea girt 

city. 
I am not yours, — I cannot braid the lilies 
In your wet hair, nor on your argent 

bosoms 
Close my drowsed eyes to hear you? 

rippling voices. 
Hateful to me your sweet, cold, crystaj 

being, — 



KUBLEH. 



75 



lour world of watery quiet. Help, 
Apollo ! 

For I am thine : thy fire, thy beam, thy 
music, 

Dance in my heart and flood my sense 
with rapture ! 

The joy, the warmth and passion now 
awaken, 

Promised by thee, but erewhile calmly 
sleeping. 

Oh, leave me, Naiads ! loose your chill 
embraces, 

Or I shall die, for mortal maidens pin- 
ing." 

But still with unrelenting arms they 
bound him, 

And still, accordant, flowed their watery 
voices : 

" We have thee now, — we hold thy 
beauty prisoned ; 

Oh, come with us beneath the emerald 
waters ! 

We have no love : we have thee, rosy 
Hylas. 

Oh, love us, who shall nevermore release 
thee : 

Love us, whose milky arms will be thy 
cradle 

Far down on the untroubled sands of 
ocean, 

Where now we bear thee, clasped in our 
embraces." 

And slowly, slowly sank the amorous 
Naiads ; 

The boy's blue eyes, upturned, looked 
through the water, 

Pleading for help ; but Heaven's im- 
mortal Archer 

Was swathed in cloud. The ripples hid 

his forehead, 
ind last, the thick, bright curls a mo- 
ment floated, 

So warm and silky that the stream up- 
bore them, 

Closing reluctant, as he sank forever. 

The sunset died behind the crags of Im- 
bros. 

Argo was tugging at her chain ; for 
freshly 

Blew the swift breeze, and leaped the 
restless billows. 

I he voice of Jason roused the dozing 
sailors, 

A.nd up the mast was heaved che snowy 
canvas. 

But mighty Heracles, the Jove-begot- 
ten, 



Unmindful stood, beside the cool Sea- 
mander, 

Leaning upon his club. A purple chla- 
mys 

Tossed o'er an urn was all that lay be- 
fore him : 

And when he called, expectant, " Hy- 
las! Hylas!" 

The empty echoes made him answer,— 
" Hvlas ! " 



KUBLEH: 

A STORY OF THE ASSYRIAN DESERT. 

The black-eyed children of the Desert 
drove 

Their flocks together at the set of 
sun. 

The tents were pitched ; the weary cam- 
els bent 

Their suppliant necks, and knelt upon 
the sand ; 

The hunters quartered by the kindled 
fires 

The wild boars of the Tigris they had 
slain, 

And all the stir and sound of evening 
ran 

Throughout the Shammar camp. The 
dewy air 

Bore its full burden of confused delight 

Across the flowery plain; and while, 
afar, 

The snows of Koordish Mountains ir 
the ray 

Flashed roseate amber, Nimroud's an- 
cient mound 

Hose broad and black against the burn- 
ing West. 

The shadows deepened, and the stars 
came out, 

Sparkling in violet ether ; one by one 

Glimmered the ruddy camp-fires on tfca 
plain, 

And shapes of steed and horseman 
moved among 

The dusky tents, with shout and jostling 
cry, 

And neigh and restless prancing. Chil- 
dren ran 

To hold the thongs, while every rider 
drove 

His quivering spear in the earth, and by 
his door 

Tethered the horse he loved. In midst 
of all 



76 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



Stood Shammeriyah, whom they dared 

not touch, — 
The foal of wondrous Kubleh, to the 

Shekh 
A dearer wealth than all his Georgian 

girls. 

But when their meal was o'er, — when 

the red fires 
Blazed brighter, and the dogs no longer 

bayed, — 
When Shammar hunters with the boys 

sat down 
To cleanse their bloody knives, came 

Alimar, 
The poet of the tribe, whose songs of 

love 
Are sweeter than Bassora's nightin- 



Whose songs of war can fire the Arab 

blood 
Like war itself : who knows not Alimar 1 
Then asked the men, " Poet, sing of 

Kubleh!" 
And boys laid down the burnished 

knives and said, 
" Tell us of Kubleh, whom we never 

saw, — 
Of wondrous Kubleh ! " Closer drew 

the group, 
With eager eyes, about the flickering fire, 
While Alimar, beneath the Assyrian 

stars, 
Sang to the listening Arabs : 

" God is great ! 
Arabs ! never since Mohammed rode 
The sands of Beder, and by Mecca's 

gate 
That winged steed bestrode, whose mane 

of fire 
Blazed up the zenith, when, by Allah 

called, 
He bore the Prophet to the walls of 

Heaven, 
Was like to Kubleh, Sofuk's wondrous 

mare : 
Not all the milk-white barbs, whose hoofs 

dashed flame, 
In Baghdad's stabks, from the marble 

floor, — 
Who ; swathed in purple housings, 

pranced in state 
The gay bazaars, by great Al-Kaschid 

backed : 
Not the wild charger of Mongolian breed 
That went o'er half the world with 

Tamerlane : 



Nor yet those flying coursers, long ago 
From Ormuz brought by swarthy In 

dian grooms 
To Persia's kings, — the foals of sacred 

mares, 
Sired by the fiery stallions of the sea ! 

" Who ever told, in all the Desert Land, 
The many deeds of Kubleh 1 Who can 

tell 
Whence came she 1 whence her like 

shall come again ? 
Arabs ! sweet as tales of Scheherazade 
Heard in the camp, when javelin shafts 

are tried 
On the hot eve of battle, are the words 
That tell the marvels of her history. 

" Far in the Southern sands, the hunters 
g ay, 

Did Sofuk find her, by a lonely palm. 

The well had dried; her fierce, impa- 
tient eye 

Glared red and sunken, and her slight 
young limbs 

Were lean with thirst. He checked his 
camel's pace, 

And, while it knelt, untied the water- 
skin, 

And when the wild mare drank, she 
followed him. 

Thence none but Sofuk might the sad- 
dle gird 

Upon her back, or clasp the brazen gear 

About her shining head, that brooked 
no curb 

From even him ; for she, alike, was 
royal. 

" Her form was lighter, in its shifting 

grace, 
Than some impassioned almeh's, when 

the dance 
Unbinds her scarf, and golden anklets 

gleam, 
Through floating drapery, on the buoy- 
ant air. 
Her light, free head was ever held aloft ; 
Between her slender and transparent 

ears 
The silken forelock tossed ; her nostril's 

arch, 
Thin-blown, in proud and pliant beauty 

spread 
Snuffing the desert winds. Her glossy 

neck 
Curved to the shoulder like an eagle'i 

wing, 



KUBLEH. 



77 



And oil Aer matchless lines of flank and 

limb 
Seemed fashioned from the flying shapes 

of air. 
When sounds of warlike preparation 

rang 
From tent to tent, her keen and restless 

eye 
Shone blood-re i as a ruby, and her 

neigh 
Rang wild and sharp above the clash 

of spears. 

" The tribes of Tigris and the Desert 
knew her : 

Sofuk before the Shammar bands she 
bore 

To meet the dread Jebours, who waited 
not 

To bid her welcome ; and the savage 
Koord, 

Chased from his bold irruption on the 
plain, 

Has seen her hoof-prints in his mount- 
ain snow. 

Lithe as the dark-eyed Syrian gazelle, 

O'er ledge, and chasm, and barren steep 
amid 

The Sinjar-hills, she ran the wild ass 
down. 

Through many a battle's thickest brunt 
she stormed, 

Reeking with sweat and dust, and fet- 
lock deep 

In curdling gore. When hot and lurid 
haze 

Stifled the crimson sun, she swept be- 
fore 

The whirling sand-spout, till her gusty 
mane 

Flared in its vortex, while the camels 
lay 

Groaning and helpless on the fiery 
waste. 

u The tribes of Taurus and the Caspian 
knew her : 

The Georgian chiefs have heard her 
trumpet neigh 

Before the walls of Tiflis ; pines that 
grow 

In ancient Caucasus have harbored 
her, 

Bleeping by Sofuk in their spicy gloom. 

The surf of Trebizond has bathed her 
flanks, 

IVhen from the shore she saw the white- 
sailed bark 



That brought him home from Stam- 

boul. Never yet, 
Arabs! never yet was like to Ku- 

bleh! 

" And Sofuk loved her. She was more 

to him 
Than all his snowy-bosomed odalisques. 
For many years she stood beside his 

tent, 
The glory of the tribe. 

" At last she died, — 
Died, while the fire was yet in all her 

limbs, — 
Died for the life of Sofuk, whom she 

loved. 
The base Jebours, — on whom be Allah's 

curse ! — 
Came on his path, w r hen far from any 

camp, 
And would have slain him, but that 

Kubleh sprang 
Against the javelin points, and bore 

them down, 
And gained the open Desert. Wounded 

sore, 
She urged her light limbs into madden- 
ing speed, 
And made the wind a laggard. On 

and on 
The red sand slid beneath her, and be- 
hind 
Whirled in a swift and cloudy turbu- 
lence, 
As when some star of Eblis, downward 

hurled 
By Allah's bolt, sweeps with its burning 

hair 
The waste of darkness. On and on the 

bleak, 
Bare ridges rose before her, came, and 

passed, 
And every flying leap with fresher blood 
Her nostrils stained, till Sofuk's brow 

and breast 
Were flecked with crimson foam. He 

would have turned 
To save his treasure, though himself 

were lost, 
But Kubleh fiercely snapped the brazen 

rein. 
At last, when through her spent and 

quivering frame 
The sharp throes ran, our clustering 

tents arose, 
And with a neigh, whose shrill accew 



T8 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



O'ercame its agony, she stopped and 

fell. 
The Shammar men came round her as 

she lay, 
And Sofuk raised her head, and held it 

close 
Against his breast. Her dull and glaz- 
ing eye 
Met his, and with a shuddering gasp 

she died. 
Then like a child his bursting grief 

made way 
In passionate tears, and with him all 

the tribe 
Wept for the faithftil mare. 

" They dug her grave 
Amid El-Hather's marbles, where she 

lies 
Buried with ancient kings; and since 

that time 
Was never seen, and will not be again, 
Arabs ! though the world be doomed 

to live 
As many moons as count the desert 

sands, 
The like of glorious Kubleh. God is 

great ! " 



MON-D A-MLN ; 

OR, THE ROMANCE OP MAIZE. 



Long ere the shores of green America 
Were touched by men of Norse and 

Saxon blood, 
What time the Continent in silence lay, 
A solemn realm of forest and of flood, 
Where Nature wantoned wild in zones 

immense, 
Unconscious of her own magnificence ; 



Then to the savage race, who knew no 
world 

3eyond the hunter's lodge, the council- 
fire, 

The clouds of grosser sense were some- 
times furled, 

And spirits came to answer their de- 
sire, — 

The spirits of the race, grotesque and 
shy; 

Exaggerated powers of earth and sky. 



For Gods resemble whom they govern 
they, 

The fathers of the soil, may not outgrow 

The children's vision. In that earliei 
day, 

They stooped the race familiarly to 
know ; 

Erom Heaven's blue prairies they de- 
scended then, 

And took the shapes and shared the lives 
of men. 

IV. 

A chief there was, who in the frequent 
stress 

Of want, yet in contentment, lived his 
days ; 

His lodge was built within the wilder- 
ness 

Of Huron, clasping those transparent 
bays, 

Those deeps of unimagined crystal, 
where 

The bark canoe seems hung in middle 
air. 



There, from the lake and from the un- 
certain chase 

With patient heart his sustenance he 
drew; 

And he was glad to see, in that wild 
place, 

The sons and daughters that around 
him grew, 

Although more scant they made his 
scanty store, 

And in the winter moons his need was 



The eldest was a boy, a silent lad, 
Who wore a look of wisdom from his 

birth ; 
Such beauty, both of form and face, he 

had, 
As until then was never known on earth 
And so he was (his soul so bright and 

far!) 
Osseo named, — Son of the Evening 

Star. 



This boy by nature was ompanionless 
His soul drew nurture only when h 
sucked 



MON-DA-MIN. 



79 



The savage dugs of Fable ; he could guess 
The knowledge other miuds but slcwly 

plucked 
From out the heart of things; to him, 

as well 
As to his Gods, all things were possible. 



The heroes of that shapeless faith of his 
Took life from him : when gusts of 

powdery snow 
Whirled round the lodge, he saw Paup- 

puekewiss 
Floundering amid the drifts, and he 

would go 
Climbing the hills, while sunset faded 

wan, 
To seek the feathers of the Rosy Swan. 



IX. 

He knew the lord of serpent and of 
beast, 

The crafty Incarnation of the North ; 

He knew, when airs grew warm and 
buds increased, 

The sky was pierced, the Summer is- 
sued forth, 

And when a cloud concealed some 
mountain's crest 

The Bird of Thunder brooded on his 
nest. 



Through Huron's mists he saw the en- 
chanted boat 

Of old Mishosha to his island go, 

And oft he watched, if on the waves 
might float, 

As once, the Fiery Plume of Wassamo ; 

And when the moourise flooded coast 
and bay, 

He climbed the headland, stretching far 
away ; 



For there — so ran the legend — nightly 

came 
The small Puck-wudjees, ignorant of 

harm : 
The friends of Man, in many a sportive 

game 
The nimble elves consoled them for the 

charm 
Which kept them exiled from their 

homes afar, — 
The siiver lodges of a twilight star. 



So grew Osseo, as a lonely pine, 
That knows the secret of the wander- 
ing breeze, 
And ever sings its canticles divine, 
Uncomprehended by the other trees : 
And now the time drew nigh, when he 

began 
The solemn fast whose issue proves the 
man. 



His father built a lodge the wood within, 
Where he the appointed space should 

duly bide, 
Till such propitious time as he had been 
By faith prepared, by fasting purified, 
And in mysterious dreams allowed to 

see 
What God the guardian of his life 

would be. 



The anxious crisis of the Spring was 
past, 

And warmth was master o'er the linger- 
ing cold. 

The alder's catkins dropped ; the maple 
cast 

His crimson bloom, the willow's downy 
gold 

Blew wide, and softer than a squirrel's 
ear 

The white oak's foxy leaves began ap- 
pear. 



There was a motion in the soil. A sound 
Lighter than falling seeds, shook out of 

flowers, 
Exhaled where dead leaves, sodden on 

the ground, 
Repressed the eager grass : and there 

for hours 
Osseo lay, and vainly strove to bring 
Into his mind the miracle of Spring. 

XVI. 

The wood-birds knew it, and theii voices 
rang 

Around his lodge ; with many a dart 
and whir 

Of saucy joy, the shrewish catbird sang 

Full-throated, and he heard the king- 
fisher. 



80 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



Who from his God escaped with rum- 
pled crest, 

And the white medal hanging on his 
breast. 

XVII. 

The aquilegia sprinkled on the rocks 

A scarlet rain ; the yellow violet 

Sat in the chariot of its leaves; the 

phlox 
Held spikes of purple flame in meadows 

wet, 
And all the streams with vernal-scented 

reed 
Were fringed, and streaky bells of mis- 

kodeed. 



The boy went musing : What are these, 

that burst 
The sod and grow, without the aid of 

man 1 
What father brought them food 1 what 

mother nursed 
Them in her earthy lodge, till Spring 

began ? 
They cannot speak ; they move but with 

the air ; 
Yet souls of evil or of good they bear. 



How are they made, that some with 
wholesome juice 

Delight the tongue, and some are 
charged with death 1 

If spirits them inhabit, they can loose 

Their shape sometimes, and talk with 
human breath : 

Would that in dreams one such would 
come to me, 

And thence my teacher and my guar- 
dian be ! 



fco, when more languid with his fast, 
the boy 

Kept to his lodge, he pondered much 
thereon, 

And other memories gave his mind em- 
ploy ; 

Memories of winters when the moose 
were gone, — 

When tales of Manabozo failed to melt 

?he hunger-pang his pinirg brothers 
fels. 



He thought : The Mighty Spirit knowi 
all things, 

Is master over all. Could He not choose 

Design his children food to ease the 
stings 

Of hunger, when the lake and wood re- 
fuse ? 

If He will bless me with the knowl- 
edge, I 

Will for my brothers fast until I die. 



Four days were sped since he had tasted 

meat; 
Too faint he was to wander any more, 
When from the open sky, that/blue and 

sweet, 
Looked in upon him through the lodge's 

door, 
With quiet gladness he beheld a fair 
Celestial Shape descending through the 

air. 

XXIII. 

He fell serenely, as a winged seed 
Detached in summer from the maple 

bough ; 
His glittering clothes unruffled by the 



The tufted plumes unshaken on his 

brow : 
Bright, wonderful, he came without a 

sound, 
And like a burst of sunshine struck the 

ground. 

xxiy. 

So light he stood, so tall and straight of 

limb, 
So fair the heavenly freshness of his face, 
With beating heart Osseo looked at him, 
For now a God had visited the place. 
More brave a God his dreams had never 

seen: 
The strauger's garments were a shining 

green. 

XXV. 

Sheathing his limbs in many a stately 

fold, 
That, parting on his breast, allowed the 

eye 
To note beneath, his vest of scaly gold 
Whereon the drops of slaughter, scarcolj 

dry, 



Disclosed their blushing stain 

shoulders fair 
Gave to the wind long tufts of silky hair 



The plumy crest, that hisrh and beauti 

ful 
Above his head its branchiug tassel3 

hung, 
Shook down a golden dust, while, fixing 

full 
His eyes upon the boy, he loosed his 

tongue. 
Deep in his soul Osseo did rejoice 
To hear the reedy music of his voice : 



" By the Great Spirit I am hither sent, 
He knows the wishes whereupon you 

feed, — 
The soul, that, on your brothers' good 

intent, 
Would sink ambition to relieve their 

need : 
This thing is grateful to the Master's 

eye, 
Nor will His wisdom what you seek 

deny. 

XXVIII. 

" But blessings are not free ; they do 
not fali 

In listless hands ; by toil the soul must 
prove 

Its steadfast purpose master over all, 

Before their wings in pomp of coming 
move : 

Here, wrestling with me, must you over- 
come, 

In me, the secret, — else, my lips are 
dumb." 



No match for his, Osseo's limbs ap- 
peared, 

Weak with the fast ; and yet in soul he 
grew 

Composed and resolute, by accents 
cheered, 

That spake in light what he but darkly 
knew. 

lie rose, unto the issue nerved ; he 
sent 

Into his arms the hope of the event. 



MOX-DA-MIN. 
: his 



81 



The shining stranger wrestled long and 
hard, 

When, disengaging weary limbs, he 
said : 

" It is enough; with no unkind regard 

The Master's eye your toil hath vis- 
ited. 

He bids me cease ; to-day let strife re- 
main ; 

But on the morrow I will come again." 

XXXI. 

And on the morrow came he as before, 

Dropping serenely down the deep-blue 
air: 

More weak and languid was the boy, 
yet more 

Courageous he, that crowning test to 
bear. 

His soul so wrought in every fainting 
limb, 

It seemed the cruel fast had strength- 
ened him. 



Again they grappled, and their sinews 
wrung 

In desperate emulation ; and again 

Came words of comfort from the stran- 
ger's tongue 

When they had ceased. He scaled the 
heavenly plain, 

His tall, bright stature lessening as he 
rose, 

Till lost amid the infinite repose. 



On the third day descending as before, 
His raiment's gleam surprised the silent 

sky; 
And weaker still the poor boy felt, yet 

more 
Courageous he, and resolute to die, 
So he might first the promised good 

embrace, 
And leave a blessing unto all his race. 



This time with intertwining limbs the) 

strove ; 
The God's green mantle shook in every 

fold, 



82 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



And o'er Osseo's heated forehead drove 
His silky hair, his tassel's dusty gold, 
Till, spent and breathless, he at last 

forbore, 
And sat to rest beside the lodge's door. 



" My friend," he said, " the issue now 
is plain ; 

Who wrestles in his soul must victor 
be; 

Who bids his life in payment shall 
ittain 

The en J he seeks, — and you will van- 
quish me. 

Then, these commands fulfilling, you 
shall win 

What the Great Spirit gives in Mon-da- 
Min. 

XXXVI. 

•' When I am dead, strip off this green 

array, 
And pluck the tassels from my shrivelled 

hair ; 
Then bury me where summer rains shall 

play 
Above my breast, and sunshine linger 

there. 
Remove the matted sod; for I would 

. have 
The earth lie lightly, softly on my grave. 

XXXVII. 

"And tend the place, lest any noxious 

weed 
Through the sweet soil should strike its 

bitter root ; 
Nor let the blossoms of the forest breed, 
Nor the wild grass in green luxuriance 

shoot ; 
But when the earth is dry and blistered, 

fold 
Thereon the fresh and dainty-smelling 

mould. 



• The clamoring crow, the blackbird 
swarms that make 

the meadow trees their hive, must 
come not near : 

Scare thence all hurtful things ; nor 
quite forsake 

four careful watch until the woods ap- 
pear 



With crimson blotches deeply dashed 

and crossed, — 
Sign of the fatal pestilence of Frost. 



" This done, the secret, into knowledge 

grown, 
Is yours forevermore." With that, he 

took - 
The yielding air. Osseo, left alone, 
Followed his flight with hope-enraptured 

look. 
The pains of hunger fled; a happy 

flame 
Danced in his heart until the trial came. 



It happened so, as Mon-da-Min foretold ; 
Osseo's soul, at every wreathing twist 
Of palpitating muscle, grew more bold, 
And from the limbs of his antagonist 
Celestial vigor to his own he drew, 
Till with one mighty heave he over- 
threw. 



Then from the body, beautiful and cold, 
He stripped the shining clothes ; but on 

his breast 
He left the vest, engrained with blush- 
ing gold, 
And covered him in decent burial-rest. 
At sunset to his father's lodge he passed, 
And soothed with meat the anguish of 
his fast. 



Naught did he speak of all that he had 

done 
But day by day in secrecy he sought 
An opening in the forest, where the sun 
Warmed the new grave : so tenderly he 

wrought, 
So lightly heaped the mould, so care- 
fully 
Kept all the place from choking herb- 
age free, 



That in a little while a folded plume 
Pushed timklly the covering soil aside, 
And, fed by fattening rains, tooli 

broader room, 
Until it grew a stalk, and rustled wide 



THE SOLDIER AND THE PARD. 



83 



Its leafy garments, lifting in the air 
Its tasselled top, and knots of silky hair. 



Osseo marvelled to behold his friend 
In this fair plant ; the secret of the Spring 
Was his at length ; and till the Sum- 
mer's end 
He guarded him from every harmful 

thing. 
He geared the cloud of blackbirds, 

wheeling low ; 
His arrow pierced the reconnoitring 
crow. 



Now came the brilliant mornings, kind- 
ling all 
The woody hills with pinnacles of fire ; 
The gum's ensanguined leaves began to 

The buckeye blazed in prodigal attire, 
And frosty vapors left the lake at night 
To string the prairie grass with spangles 
white. 



3r& day, from long and unsuccessful 

chase 
The chief returned. Osseo through the 

wood 
In silence led him to the guarded place, 
Where now the plant in golden ripeness 

stood. 
" Behold, my father ! " he exclaimed, 

" our friend, 
Whom the Great Spirit unto me did 

send, 



" Then, when I fasted, and my prayer 
He knew, 

That He would save my brothers from 
their want ; 

For this, His messenger I overthrew, 

And from his grave was born this glori- 
ous plant. 

'T is Mon-da-Min : his sheathing husks 
enclose 

Food for my brothers in the time of 
snows. 

XLVIII. 

* I leave y« a now, my father ! Here be- 
fits 

He longer not to dwell. My pathway 
lies 



To where the West-wind on the mount- 
ain sits, 

And the Red Swan beyond the sunset 
flies : 

There may superior wisdom be in 
store." 

And so he went, and he returned no 
more. 



But Mon-da-Min remained, and still re- 
mains ; 

His children cover all the boundless 
land, 

And the warm sun and frequent mellow 
rains 

Shape the tall stalks and make the 
leaves expand. 

A mighty army they have grown : he 
drills 

Their green battalions on the summer 
hills. 



And when the silky hair hangs crisp 

and dead, 
Then leave their rustling ranks the 

tasselled peers, 
In broad encampment pitch their tents 

instead, 
A nd garner up the ripe autumnal ears : 
The annual storehouse of a nation's 

need, 
From whose abundance all the world 

may feed. 



THE SOLDIER AND THE PARD. 

A second deluge ! Well, — no matter : 

here, 
At least, is better shelter than the lean, 
Sharp-elbowed oaks, — a dismal com- 
pany! 
That stood around us in the mountain 

road 
When that cursed axle broke : a roof of 

thatch, 
A fire of withered boughs, and best of 

all, 
This ruddy wine of Languedoc, that 

warms 
One tarough and through, from hean 

to finger-ends. 
No better quarters for a stormy night 
A soldier, like myself, could ask ; ?nc 

since 



84 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



The rough Cevennes refuse to let us 

forth, 
Why, fellow-travellers, if so you will, 
I '11 tell the story cut 60 rudely short 
When both fore-wheels broke from the 

diligence, 
Stocked in the rut, and pitched us all 

together : 
I said, we fought beside the Pyramids ; 
And somehow, from the glow of this 

good wine, 
And from the gloomy rain, that shuts 

one in 
With his own self, — a sorry mate 

sometimes ! — 
The scene comes back like life. As 

then, I feel 
The sun, and breathe the hot Egyptian 

air, 
Hear Kleber, see the sabre of Dessaix 
Flash at the column's front, and in the 

midst 
Napoleon, upon his Barbary horse, 
Calm, swarthy-browed, and wiser than 

the Sphinx 
Whose granite lips guard Egypt's mys- 
tery. 
Ha ! what a rout ! our cannon bellowed 

round 
The Pyramids : the Mamelukes closed 

in, 
And hand to hand like devils did we 

" fight, 
Rolled towards Sakkara in the smoke 

and sand. 

For days we followed up the Nile. We 

pitched 
Our tents in Memphis, pitched them on 

the site 
Of Antinoe, and beside the cliffs 
Of Aboufayda. Then we came anon 
On Kenneh, ere the sorely-frightened 

Bey 
Had time to pack his harem : nay, we 

took 
His camels, not his wives : and so, from 

day 
To day, past wrecks of temples half sub- 
merged 
In sandy inundation, till we saw 
Old noseless Memnon sitting on the 

plain, 
Both hands upon his knees, and in the 

east 
Karnak's pro pylon and its pillared court. 
The sphinxes wondered — such as had a 

face — 



To see us stumbling down their avenues , 

But we kept silent. One may whistle 
round 

Your Roman temples here at Nismes, or 
dance 

Upon the Pont du Gard ; — but, take mj 
word, 

Egyptian ruins are a serious thing : 

You would not dare let fly a joke beside 

The maimed colossi, though your very 
feet 

Might catch between some mummied 
Pharaoh's ribs. 

Dessaix was bent on chasing Mame- 
lukes, 

And so we rummaged tomb and cata- 
comb, 

Clambered the hills and watched the 
Desert's rim 

For sight of horse. One day my com- 
pany 

(I was but ensign then) found far within 

The sands, a two-days' journey from the 

A round oasis, like a jewel set. 

It was a grove of date-trees, clustering 

close 
About a tiny spring, whose overflow 
Trickled beyond their shade a little 

space, 
And the insatiate Desert licked it up. 
The fiery ride, the glare of afternoon 
Had burned our faces, so we stopped to 

feel 
The coolness and the shadow, like a bath 
Of pure ambrosial lymph, receive our 

limbs 
And sweeten every sense. Drowsed by 

the soft, 
Delicious greenness and repose, I crept 
Into a balmy nest of yielding shrubs, 
And floated off to slumber on a cloud 
Of rapturous sensation. 

When I woke, 
So deep haa been the oblivion of that 

sleep, 
That Adam, when he woke in Paradise. 
Was not more blank of knowledge ; he 

had felt 
As heedlessly, the silence and the shade ; 
As ignorantly had raised his eyes and 

seen — 
As, for a moment, I — what then I saw 
With terror, freezing limb and voice like 

death, 
When the slow sense, supplying one losl 

link, 




THE SPHINX. Page 84. 



THE SOLDIER AND THE PARD. 



86 



Ran with electric fleetness through the 

chain 
And showed me what I was, — no mir- 
acle, 
But lost and left alone amid the waste, 
Fronting a deadly Pard, that kept great 

eyes 
Fixed steadily on mine. I could not 

move : 
My heart beat slow and hard : I sat and 

gazed, 
Without a wink, upon those jasper orbs, 
Noting the while, with horrible detail, 
Whereto my fascinated sight was bound, 
Their tawny brilliance, and the spotted 

fell 
That wrinkled round them, smoothly 

sloping back 
And curving to the short and tufted 

ears. 
I felt — and with a sort of fearful joy — 
The beauty of the creature : 't was a 

pard, 
Not such as one of those they show you 

caged 
In Paris, — lean and scurvy beasts 

enough ! 
No : but a desert pard, superb and 

proud, 
That would have died behind the cruel 

bars. 

I think the creature had not looked on 

man, 
For, as my brain grew cooler, I could 

see 
Small sign of fierceness in her eyes, but 

chief, 
Surprise and wonder. More and more 

entranced, 
Her savage beauty warmed away the 

chill 
Of deathlike terror at my heart : I 

stared 
With kindling admiration, and there 

came 
A gradual softness o'er the flinty light 
Within her eyes ; a shadow crept around 
Their yellow disks, and something like 

a dawn 
Of recognition of superior will, 
Of brute affection, sympathy enslaved 
By higher nature, then informed her 

face. 
Thrilling in every nerve, I stretched my 

hand, — 
Bk* silent, moveless, — touched her vel- 
vet head, 



And with a warm, sweet shiver in my 

blood, 
Stroked down the ruffled hairs. She 

did not start ; 
But, in a moment's lapse, drew up one 

paw 
And moved a step, — another, — till her 

breath 
Came hot upon my face. She stopped : 

she rolled 
A deep-voiced note of pleasure and of 

love, 
And gathering up her spotted length, 

lay down, 
Her head upon my lap, and forward 

thrust 
One heavy-moulded paw across my 

knees, 
The glittering talons sheathing tenderly. 
Thus we, in that oasis all alone, 
Sat when the sun went down : the Pard 

and I, 
Caressing and caressed : and more of 

love 
And more of confidence between us 

came, 
I grateful for my safety, she alive 
With the dumb pleasure of companion- 
ship, 
Which touched with instincts of hu- 
manity 
Her brutish nature. When I slept, at 

last, 
My arm was on her neck. 

The morrow brought 
No rupture of the bond between us twain. 
The creature loved me ; she would 

bounding come, 
Cat-like, to rub her great, smooth, yel- 
low head 
Against my knee, or with rough tongue 

would lick 
The hand that stroked the velvet of her 

hide. 
How beautiful she was ! how lithe and 

free 
The undulating motions of her frame ! 
How shone, like isles of tawny gold, her 

spots, 
Mapped on the creamy white ! And 

when she walked, 
No princess, with the crown about her 

brows, 
Looked so superbly royal. Ah, my 

friends, 
Smile as you may, but 1 woula give this 

life 



86 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



With its fantastic pleasures — aye, even 
that 

One leads in Paris — to be back again 

In the red Desert with my splendid 
Pard. 

That grove of date-trees was our home, 
our world, 

A star of verdure in a sky of sand. 

Without the feathery f ringes of its shade 

The naked Desert ran, its burning 
round 

Sharp as a sword : the naked sky above, 

Awf ul in its immensity, not shone 

There only, where the sun supremely 
flamed, 

But all its deep-blue walls were pene- 
trant 

With dazzling light. God reigned in 
Heaven and Earth, 

An Everlasting Presence, and his care 

Fed us, alike his children. From the 
trees 

That shook down pulpy dates, and from 
the spring, 

The quiet author of that happy grove, 

My wants were sated ; and when mid- 
night came, 

Then would the Pard steal softly from 
my side, 

Take the unmeasured sand with flying 



And vanish in the dusk, returning soon 
With a gazelle's light carcass in her 

jaws. 
So passed the days, and each the other 

taught 
Our simple language. She would come 

at call 
Of the pet name I gave her, bound and 

sport 
When so I bade, and she could read my 

face 
Through all its changing moods, with 

better skill 
Than many a Christian comrade. Pard 

and beast, 
Though you may say she was, she had a 

soul. 

But Sin will find the way to Paradise. 

Erelong the sense of isolation fed 

My mind with restless fancies. I be- 

To miss the life of camp, the march, the 

fight, 
The soldier's emulation : youthful blood 
Ban in my veins : the silence lost its 

charm, 



And when the morning sunrise lighted 

U P 
The threshold of the Desert, I would 

gaze 
With looks of bitter longing o'er the 

sand. 
At last, I filled my soldier's sash with 

dates, 
Drank deeply of the spring, and while 

the Pard 
Roamed in the starlight for her forage, 

took 
A westward course. The grove already 

lay 
A dusky speck — no more — when 

through the night 
Came the forsaken creature's eager cry. 
Into a sandy pit I crept, and heard 
Erer bounding on my track until she 

rolled 
Down from the brink upon me. Then 

with cries 
Of joy and of distress, the touching 

proof 
Of the poor beast's affection, did she 

strive 
To lift me — Pardon, friends! these 

foolish eyes 
Must have their will : and had you seen 

her then, 
In her mad gambols, as we homeward 

went, 
Your hearts had softened too. 

But I, possessed 
By some vile devil of mistrust, became 
More jealous and impatient. In my 

heart 
I cursed the grove, and with suspicions 

wronged 
The noble Pard. She keeps me here, I 

thought, 
Deceived with false caresses, as a cat 
Toys with the trembling mouse she 

straight devours. 
Will she so gently fawn about my feet, 
When the gazelles are gone ? Will sh / 

crunch dates, 
And drink the spring, whose only drink 

is blood ? 
Am I to ruin flattered, and by whom ? — 
Not even a man, a wily beast of prey. 
Thus did the Devil whisper in mine 

ear, 
Till those black thoughts were rooted in 

my heart 
And made me cruel. So it chanced cn« 

day, 



ARIEL IN THE CLOVEN PINE. 



87 



That as I watched a flock of birds that 

wheeled, 
And dipped, and circled in the air, the 

Pard, 
Moved by a freak of fond solicitude 
To win my notice, closed her careful 

fangs 
About my knee. Scarce knowing what 

I did, 
In the blind impulse of suspicious fear, 
I plunged, full home, my dagger in her 

neck. 
God ! could I but recall that blow ! She 

loosed 
Her hold, as softly as a lover quits 
His mistress' lips, and with a single 

groan, 
Full of reproach and sorrow, sank and 

died. 
"What had I done ! Sure never on this 

earth 
Did sharper grief so base a deed requite. 
Its murderous fury gone, my heart was 

racked 
With pangs of wild contrition, spent 

itself 
In cries and tears, the while I called on 

God 
To curse me for mv sin. There lay the 

Pard, 
Her splendid eyes all film, her blazoned 

fell 
Smirched with her blood; and I, her 

murderer, 
Less than a beast, had thus repaid her 

love. 

Ah, friends ! with all this guilty mem- 
ory 
My heart is sore : and little now remains 
To tell you, but that afterwards — how 

long, 
I could not know — our soldiers picked 

me up, 
Wandering about the Desert, wild with 

grief 
And sobbing like a child. My nerves 

have grown 
To steel, in many battles ; I can step 
Without a shudder through the heaps 

of slain ; 
But never, never, till the day I die, 
Prevent a woman's weakness when I 

think 
Upon my desert Pard : and if a man 
Deny this truth she taugbt me, to his 

face 
I say he lies : a beast may have a soul. 



ARIEL IN THE CLOVEN PINE 

Now the frosty stars are gone : 
I have watched them one by one, 
Fading on the shores of Dawn. 
Round and full the glorious sun 
Walks with level step the spray, 
Through his vestibule of Day, 
While the wolves that late did howl 
Slink to dens and coverts foul, 
Guarded by the demon owl, 
Who, last night, with mocking croon, 
Wheeled athwart the chilly moon, 
And with eyes that blankly glared 
On my direful torment stared. 

The lark is flickering in the light ; 
Still the nightingale doth sing ; — 
All the isle, alive wath Spring, 
Lies, a jewel of delight, 
On the blue sea's heaving breast : 
Not a breath from out the West, 
But some balmy smell doth bring 
From the sprouting myrtle buds, 
Or from meadowy vales that lie 
Like a green inverted sky, 
Which the yellow cowslip stars, 
And the bloomy almond woods, 
Cloud-like, cross with roseate bars. 
All is life that I can spy, 
To the farthest sea and sky, 
And my own the only pain 
Within this ring of Tyrrhene main. 

In the gnarled and cloven Pine 
Where that hell-born hag did chain m 
All this orb of cloudless shine, 
All this youth in Nature's veins 
Tingling with the season's wine, 
With a sharper torment pain me. 
Pansies in soft April rains 
Fill their stalks with honeyed sap 
Drawn from Earth's prolific lap ; 
But the sluggish blood she brings 
To the tough Pine's hundred rings 
Closer locks their cruel hold, 
Closer draws the scaly bark 
Round the crevice, damp and cold. 
Where my useless wings I fold, — 
Sealing me in iron dark. 
By this coarse and alien state 
Is my dainty essence wronged ; 
Finer senses that belonged 
To my freedom, chafe at Fate, 
T^ll the happier elves I hate, 
Who in moonlight dances turn 
Underneath the palmy fern. 



88 



KOMANCES AND LYRICS. 



Or in light and twinkling bands 
Follow on with linked hands 
To the Ocean's yellow sands. 

Primrose-eyes each morning ope 

In their cool, deep beds of grass ; 

Violets make the airs that pass 

Telltales of their fragrant slope. 

I can see them where they spring 

Never brushed by fairy wing. 

All those corners I can spy 

In the island's solitude, 

Where the dew is never dry, 

Nor the miser bees intrude. 

Cups of rarest hue are there, 

Full of perfumed wine undrained, — 

Mushroom banquets, ne'er profaned, 

Canopied by maiden-hair. 

Pearls I see upon the sands, 

Never touched by other hands, 

And the rainbow bubbles shine 

On the ridged and frothy brine, 

Tenantless of voyager 

Till they burst in vacant air. 

Oh, the songs that sung might be, 

And the mazy dances woven, 

Had that witch ne'er crossed the sea 

And the Pine been never cloven ! 

Many years my direst pain 
Has made the wave-rocked isle complain. 
Winds, that from the Cyclades 
Came, to blow in wanton riot 
Round its shore's enchanted quiet, 
Bore my wailings on the seas : 
Sorrowing birds in Autumn went 
Through the world with my lament. 
Still the bitter fate is mine, 
All delight unshared to see, 
Smarting in the cloven Pine, 
While I wait the tardy axe 
Which, perchance, shall set me free 
From the damned Witch Sycorax. 



THE SONG OF THE CAMP. 

" Give us a song ! " the soldiers cried, 
The outer trenches guarding, 

When the heated guns of the camps 
allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
Lay, grim and threatening, under ; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 



There was a pause. A guardsman said 

^ " We storm the forts to-morrow ; 
Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 
Below the smoking cannon : 

Brave hearts, from Severn and froic 
Clyde, 
And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame ; 

Forgot was Britain's glory : 
Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all sang " Annie Laurie." -^ 

Voice after voice caught up the song, 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 

Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak 
But, as the song grew louder, 

Something upon the soldier's cheek 
Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
The bloody sunset's embers, 

While the Crimean valleys learned 
How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 
Rained on the Russian quarters, 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell 
And bellowing of the mortars ! 

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 
For a singer, dumb and gory ; 

And English Mary mourns for him 
Who sang of " Annie Laurie." -^ 

Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 
Your truth and valor wearing: 

The bravest are the tenderest, — 
The loving are the daring. 



ICARUS. 



Io triumphe ! Lo, thy certain art, 
My crafty sire, »eleases us at length ! 
False Minos now may knit his baffle* 

brows, 
And in the labyrinth by thee devised 
His brutish horns in angry search maj 



ICARUS. 



89 



The Minotaur, — but thou and I are 
free ! 

See where it lies, one dark spot on the 
breast 

Of plains far-shining in the long-lost 
day, 

Thy glory and our prison ! Either hand 

Crete, with her hoary mountains, olive- 
clad 

In twinkling silver, 'twixt the vineyard 
rows, 

Divides the glimmering seas. On Ida's 
top 

The sun, discovering first an earthly 
throne, 

Sits down in splendor ; lucent vapors rise 

From folded glens among the awaking 
hills, 

Expand their hovering films, and touch, 
and spread 

In airy planes beneath us, hearths of air 

Whereon the Morning burns her hun- 
dred fires. 



Take thou thy way between the cloud 
and wave. 

Daedalus, my father, steering forth 
To friendly Samos, or the Carian shore ! 
But me the spaces of the upper heaven 
Attract, the height, the freedom, and 

the joy. 

For now, from that dark treachery 
escaped, 

And tasting power which was the lust 
of youth, 

Whene'er the white blades of the sea- 
gull's wings 

Flashed round the headland, or the 
barbed files 

Of cranes returning clanged across the 
sky, 

No half-way flight, no errand incom- 
plete 
purpose. Not, as once in dreams, with 
pain 

1 mount, with fear and huge exertion 

hold 
Myself a moment, ere the sickening fall 
Breaks in the shock of waking. 

Launched, at last, 
Uplift on powerful wings, I veer and 

float 
Past sunlit isles of cbud, that dot with 

light 
The boundless archipelago of sky. 
I fan the airy silence till it starts 



In rustling whispers, swallowed up ao 

soon ; 
1 warm the chilly ether with my breath ; 
I with the beating of my heart make 

glad 
The desert blue. Have I not raised my- 
self 
Unto this height, and shall I cease to 

soar ? 
The curious eagles wheel about my 

path : 
With sharp and questioning eyes they 

stare at me, 
With harsh, impatient screams they 

menace me, 
Who, with these vans of cunning work- 
manship 
Broad-spread, adventure on their high 

domain, — 
Now mine, as well. Henceforth, ye 

clamorous birds, 
I claim the azure empire of the air ! 
Henceforth I breast the current of the 

morn, 
Between her crimson shores : a star, 

henceforth, 
Upon the crawling dwellers of the earth 
My forehead shines. The steam of 

sacred blood, 
The smoke of burning flesh on altars 

laid, 
Fumes of the temple- wine, and sprinkled 

myrrh, 
Shall reach my palate ere they reach the 

Gods. 

in. 

Nay, am not I a God ? What other 

wing, 
If not a God's, could in the rounded 

sky 
Hang thus in solitary poise ? What 

need, 
Ye proud Immortals, that my balanced 

plumes 
Should grow, like yonder eagle's from 

the nest? 
It may be, ere my crafty father's line 
Sprang from Erectheus, some artificer, 
Who found you roaming wingless on 

the hills, 
Naked, asserting godship in the dearth 
Of loftier claimants, fashioned you the 

same. 
Thence did you seize Olympus : thence 

your pride 
Compelled the race of men, your slaves 

to tear 



fO 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



The temple from the mountain's marble 

womb, 
To carve you shapes more beautiful 

than they, 
To sate your idle nostrils with the 

reek 
Of gums and spices, heaped on jewelled 

gold. 



Lo, where Hyperion, through the glow- 
ing air 
Approaching, drives ! Fresh from his 

banquet-meats, 
Flushed with Olympian nectar, angrily 
He guides his fourfold span of furious 

steeds, 
Convoyed by that bold Hour whose 

ardent torch 
Burns up the dew, toward the narrow 

beach, 
This long, projecting spit of cloudy 

gold 
Whereon I wait to greet him when he 

comes. 
Think not I fear thine anger : this day, 

thou, 
Lord of the silver bow, shalt bring a 

guest 
To sit in presence of the equal Gods 
In your high hall : wheel but thy 

-chariot near, 
That I may mount beside thee ! 

What is this ? 

I hear the crackling hiss of singed 

plumes ! 
The stench of burning feathers stifles 

me ! 
My loins are stung with drops of molten 

wax ! — 
Ai ! ai ! my ruined vans ! — I fall ! I 

die! 

Ere the blue noon o'erspanned the bluer 

strait 
Which parts Icaria from Samos, fell, 
Amid the silent wonder of the air, 
Fell with a shock that startled the still 

wave, 
A shrivelled wreck of crisp, entangled 

plumes, 
A head whence eagles' beaks had 

plucked the eyes, 
And clots of wax, black limbs by eagles 

torn 
In falling : and a circling eagle screamed 
Around that floating horror of the sea 
Derision, and above Hyperion shone. 



THE BATH. 

Off, fetters of the falser life, — 

Weeds, that conceal the statue's form ! 
This silent world with truth is rife, 
This wooing air is warm. 

Now fall the thin disguises, planned 

For men too weak to walk unblamed : 
Naked beside the sea I stand, — 
Naked and not ashamed. 

Where yonder dancing billows dip, 

Far-off, to ocean's mist}' verge, 
Ploughs Morning, like a full - sailet 
ship, 
The Orient's cloudy surge. 

With spray of scarlet fire before 

The ruffled gold that round her dies, 
She sails above the sleeping shore, 
Across the waking skies. 

The dewy beach beneath her glows ; 
A pencilled beam, the lighthouse 
burns : 
Full-bre ithed, the fragrant sea-wind 
blows, — 
Life to the world returns ! 

I stand, a spirit newly-born, 

White-limbed and pure, and s'rong, 
and fair ; 
The first-begotten son of Morn, 
The nursling of the air ! 

There, in a heap, the masks of Earth, 
The cares, the sins, the griefs, are 
thrown : 
Complete, as through diviner birth, 
I walk the sands alone. 

With downy hands the winds caress, 
With frothy lips the amorous sea, 
As welcoming the nakedness 
Of vanished gods, in me. 

Along the ridged and sloping sand, 
Where headlands clasp the crescent 
cove, 
A shining spirit of the land, 

A snowy shape, I move : 

Or, plunged in hollow- r< lling brine, 

Iu emerald cradles rocked and swunjj 
The sceptre of the sea is mine, 
And mine his endless song. 



THE PALM AND THE PINE. 



91 



For Earth with primal dew is wet, 
Her long-lost child to rebaptize ; 
Her fresh, immortal Edens yet 
Their Adam recognize. 

Her ancient freedom is his fee ; 

Her ancient beauty is his dower : 

She bares her ample breasts, that he 

May suck the milk of power. 

Press on, ye hounds of life, that lurk 

So close, to seize your harried prey ; 
Ye fiends of Custom, Gold, and Work, — 
I hear your distant bay ! 

And, like the Arab, when he bears 

To the insulted camel's path 
His garment, which the camel tears, 
And straight forgets his wrath ; 

So, yonder badges of your sway, 

Life's paltry husks, to you I give : 
Fall on, and in your blindness say : 
We hold the fugitive ! 

But leave to me this brief escape 

'To simple manhood, pure and free, — 
A child of God, in God's own shape, 
Between the land and sea ! 



THE FOUNTAIN OF TREVI. 

The Coliseum lifts at night 
Its broken cells more proudly far 

Than in the noonday's naked light, 
For every rent enshrines a star : 
On Caesar's hill the royal Lar 

Presides within his mansion old : 
Decay and Death no longer mar 

The moon's atoning mist of gold. 

Still lingering near the shrines renewed, 

We sadly, fondly, look our last ; 
Each trace concealed of spoilage rude 

From old or late iconoclast, 

Till, Trajan's whispering forum passed, 
We hear the w r aters, showering bright, 

Of Trevi's ancient fountain, cast 
Their woven music on the night. 

The Genius of the Tiber nods 
Benign, above his tilted urn ; 

Kneel down and drink ! the beckoning 
gods 
This last libation will not spurn. 
Drink, and the old enchantment learn 

That hovers vet o'er Trevi's foam, — 



The promise of a sure return, 
Fresh footsteps in the d ust of Rome ! 

Kneel down and drink ! the golden days 

Here lived and dreamed, shall dawn 
again : 
Albano's hill, through purple haze, 

Again shall crown the Latin plaia. 

Whatever stains of Time remain, 
Left by the years that intervene, 

Lo ! Trevi's fount shall toss its rain 
To wash the pilgrim's forehead clean. 

Drink, and depart ! for Life is just : 
She gives to Faith a master-key 

To ope the gate of dreams august, 
And take from joys in memory 
The certainty of joys to be : 

And Trevi's basins shall be bare 
Ere we again shall fail to see 

Their silver in the Roman air. 



PROPOSAL. 

The violet loves a sunny bank, 

The cowslip loves the lea ; 
The scarlet creeper loves the elm, 
But I love — thee. 

The sunshine kisses mount and vale, 

The stars, they kiss the sea ; 
The west winds kiss the clover bloom, 
But I kiss — thee! 

The oriole weds his mottled mate . 

The lily 's bride o' the bee ; 
Heaven's marriage-ring is round th« 
earth — 
Shall I wed thee 1 



THE PALM AND THE PINE. 

When Peter led the First Crusade, 
A Norseman wooed an Arab maid. 

He loved her lithe and palmy grace, 
And the dark beauty of her face : 

She loved his cheeks, so ruddy fair, 
His sunny eyes and yellow hair. 

He called : she left her father's tent ; 
She followed wheresoe'er he went. 

Shi left the palms of Palestine 
To sit beneath the Norland pine. 



92 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



She sang the musky Orient strains 
Where Winter swept the snowy plains. 

Their natures met like Night and 

Morn 
What time the morning-star is horn. 

The child that from their meeting 

grew 
Hung, like that star, between the two. 

The glossy night his mother shed 
From her long hair was on his head : 

But in its shade they saw arise 
The morning of his father's eyes. 

Beneath the Orient's tawny stain 
Wandered the Norseman's crimson vein : 

Beneath the Northern force was seen 
The Arab sense, alert and keen. 

His were the Viking's sinewy hands, 
The arching foot of Eastern lands. 

And in his soul conflicting strove 
Northern indifference, Southern love ; 

The chastity of temperate blood, 
Impetuous passion's fiery flood ; 

The settled faith that nothing shakes, 
The jealousy a breath awakes ; 

The planning Keason's sober gaze, 
And fancy's meteoric blaze. 

And stronger, as he grew to man, 
The contradicting natures ran, — 

As mingled streams from Etna flow, 
One born of fire, and one of snow. 

And one impelled, and one withheld, 
And one obeyed, and one rebelled. 

One gave him force, the other fire ; 
This self-control, and that desire. 

3ne filled his heart with fierce unrest ; 
•Vith. peace serene the other blessed. 

He knew the depth and knew the height, 
The bounds of darkness and of light ; 

And who these far extremes has seen 
Must needs know all that lies between. 



So, with untaught, instinctive art, 
He read the myriad-natured heart. 

He met the men of many a land ; 
They gave their souls into his hand ; 

And none of them was long unknown 
The hardest lesson was his own. 

But how he lived, and where, and when 
It matters not to other men ; 

For, as a fountain disappears, 
To gush again in later years, 

So hidden blood may find the day, 
When centuries have rolled away ; 

And fresher lives betray at last 
The lineage of a far-off Past. 

That nature, mixed of sun and snow 
Repeats its ancient ebb and flow : 

The children of the Palm and Pine 
Renew their blended lives — in mine. 



ON LEAVING CALIFORNIA. 

O fair young land, the youngest, fair- 
est far 
Of which our world can boast, — 
Whose guardian planet, Evening's silvei 
star 
Illumes thy golden coast, — 

How art thou conquered, tamed in all 
the pride 
Of savage beauty still ! 
How brought, panther of the splendid 
hide, 
To know thy master's will ! 

No more thou sittest on thy tawny hills 

In indolent repose ; 
Or pour'st the crystal of a thousand rilla 

Down from thy house of snows. 

But where the wild-oats wrapped thy 
knees in gold, 
The ploughman drives his share, 
And where, through canons deep, thj 
streams are rolled, 
The miner's arm is bare. 

Yet in thy lap, thus rudely rent and tori 
A nobler seed shall be : 



EUPHORION. 



93 



Mother of mighty men, thou shalt not 
mourn 
Thy lost virginity ! 

Thy human children shall restore the 
grace 

Gone with thy fallen pines : 
The wild, barbaric beauty of thy face 

Shall round to classic lines. 

And Order, Justice, Social Law shall 
curb 
Thy untamed energies ; 
And Art and Science, with their dreams 
superb, 
Replace thine ancient ease. 

The marble, sleeping in thy mountains 
now, 
Shall live in sculptures rare' ; 
Thy native oak shall crown the sage's 
brow, — 
Thy bay, the poet's hair. 

Thy tawny hills shall bleed their purple 
wine, 

Thy valleys yield their oil ; 
And Music, with her eloquence divine, 

Persuade thy sons to toil. 

Till Hesper, as he trims his silver beam, 
No happier land shall see, 

And Earth shall find her old Arcadian 
dream 
Restored again in thee ! 



EUPHORION. 

" I will not longer 
Earth-bound linger : 
Loosen your hold on 
Hand and on ringlet, 
Girdle and garment ; 
Leave them : they 're mine ! " 

" Bethink thee, hethink thee 
To whom thou belongest ! 
Say, wouldst thou wound us, 
Rudely destroying 
Threefold the beauty, — 
Mine, his, and thine ? " 

Faust, Second Pabt. 

Nat, fold your arms, beloved Friends, 
Above the hearts that vainly beat ! 

Or catch the rainbow where it bends, 
And find your darling at its feet ; 

Or fix the fountain's varying shape 
The sunset-cloud's elusive dye. 



The speech of winds tha; round the 
cape 
Make music to the sea and sky : 

So may you summon from the air 
The loveliness that vanished hence, 

And Twilight give his beauteous hair, 
And Moruing give his countenance, 

And Life about his being clasp 
Her rosy girdle once again : — 

But no ! let go your stubborn grasp 
On some wild hope, and take youi 
pain ! 

For, through the crystal of your tears, 
His love and beauty fairer shine ; 

The shadows of advancing years 
Draw back, and leave him all divine. 

And Death, that took him, cannot claim 
The smallest vesture of his birth, — 

The little life, a dancing flame 

That hovered o'er the hills of earth, — 

The finer soul, that unto ours 
A subtle perfume seemed to be, 

Like incense blown from April flowers 
Beside the scarred and stormy tree, — 

The wondering eyes, that ever saw 
Some fleeting mystery in the air, 

And felt the stars of evening draw 
His heart to silence, childhood's 
prayer ! 

Our suns were all too fierce for him ; 

Our rude winds pierced him through 
and through : 
But Heaven has valleys cool and dim, 

And boscage sweet with starry dew. 

There knowledge breathes in balmy air, 
Not wrung, as here, with panting 
breast : 

The wisdom born of toil you share ; 
But he, the wisdom born of rest. 

For every picture here that slept, 
A living canvas is unrolled ; 

The silent harp he might have swept 
Leans to his touch its strings ot 
gold. 

Believe, dear Friends, they murmur still 
Some sweet accord to those you play, 

That happier winds of Eden thrill 
Whh echoes of the earthly lay : 



94 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



That he, for every triumph won, 
Whereto your poet-souls aspire, 

Sees opening in that perfect sun, 
Another blossom's bud of fire ! 

Each soug, of Love and Sorrow born, 
Another flower to crown your boy, — 

Each shadow here his ray of morn, 
Till Grief shall clasp the hand of Joy ! 



WIND AND SEA. 



The sea is a jovial comrade, 

He laughs wherever he goes ; 
His merriment shines in the dimpling 
lines 
That wrinkle his hale repose ; 
He lays himself down at the feet of the 
Sun, 
And shakes all over with glee, 
And the broad-backed billows fall faint 
on the shore, 
In the mirth of the mighty. Sea ! 



But the Wind is sad and restless, 

And cursed with an inward pain ; 
You may hark as you will, by valley or 
hill, 

But you hear him still complain. 
He wails on the barren mountains, 

And shrieks on the wintry sea ; 
He sobs in the cedar, and moans in the 
pine, 

And shudders all over the aspen tree. 



Welcome are both their voices, 

And I know not which is best, — 
The laughter that slips from the Ocean's 
lips, 

Or the comfortless Wind's unrest. 
There's a pang in all rejoicing, 

A joy in the heart of pain, 
A.nd the Wind that saddens, the Sea 
that gladdens, 

Are singing the selfsame strain! 



MY DEAD. 

Give back the soul of youth once 
more ! 
The years are fleeting fast away, 



And this brown hair will soon b* 
gray, 
These cheeks be pale and furrowed 
o'er. 

Ah, no, the child is long since dead, 
Whose light feet spurred the laggard 

years, 
Who breathed in future atmospheres, 

Ere Youth's eternal Present fled. 

Dead lies the boy, whose timid eye 
Shunned every face that spake not 

love; 
Whose simple vision looked above, 

And saw a glory in the sky. 

And now the youth has sighed his last _ 
I see him cold upon his bier, 
But in these eyes there is no tear : 

He joins his brethren of the Past. 

'T was time he died: the gates of Art 
Had shut him from the temple's 

shrine, 
And now I climb her mount divine, 

But with the sinews, not the heart. 

How many more, Life ! shall I 
In future offer up to thee 1 
And shall they perish utterly, 

Upon whose graves I clomb so high 'i 

Say, shall I not at last attain 

Some height, from whence the Past 
is clear, 

In whose immortal atmosphere 
I shall behold my Dead again ? 



THE LOST CROWN. 

You ask me why I sometimes drop 
The threads of talk I weave with you, 

And midway in expression stop 
As if a sudden trumpet blew. 

It is because a trumpet blows 

From steeps your feet will novor 
climb : 
It calls my soul from present woes 

To rule some buried realm of Time. 

Wide open swing the guarded gates, 
That shut from you the vales o! 
dawn ; 

And there my car of triumph waits, 
By white, immortal horses drawn. 



STUDIES FOR PICTURES. 



95 



A throne of gold the wheels uphold, 
Each spoke a ray of jewelled fire : 

The crimson banners float unrolled, 
Or falter when the winds expire. 

Lo ! where the valley's bed expands, 
Through cloudy censer-smoke, up- 
curled — 

The avenue to distant lands — 
The single landscape of a world ! 

I mount the throne ; I seize the rein ; 

Between the shouting throngs I go, 
The millions crowding hill and plain, 

And now a thousand trumpets blow ! 

The armies of the world are there, 
The pomp, the beauty, and the power, 

Far-shining through the dazzled air, 
To crown the triumph of the hour. 

Enthroned aloft, I seem to float 
On wide, victorious wings upborne, 

Past the rich vale's expanding throat, 
To where the palace burns with 
morn. 

My limbs dilate, my breast expands, 

A starry fire is in my eye ; 
I ride above the subject lands, 

A god beneath the hollow sky. 

Peal out, ye clarions ! shout, ye throngs. 
Beneath your banners' reeling folds ! 

This pageantry to me belongs, — 
My hand its proper sceptre holds. 

Surge on, in still augmenting lines, 
Till the great plain be overrun, 

And my procession far outshines 
The bended pathway of the sun ! 

But when my triumph overtops 
This language, which from vassals 
grew, 

The crown from off my forehead drops, 
And I again am serf with you. 



STUDIES FOR PICTURES. 
I. 

AT HOME. 

TnB rain is sobbing on the wold 
The house is dark, the hearth is coll ; 



And, stretching drear and ashy gray 
Beyond the cedars, lies the bay. 

The winds are moaning, as they j-ass 
Through tangled knots of autumn 

grass, — 
A weary, dreary sound of woe, 
As if all joy were dead below. 

I sit alone, [ wait in vain 
Some voice to lull this nameless pain; 
But from my neighbor's cottage near 
Come sounds of happy household cheer. 

My neighbor at his window stands, 
His youngest baby in his hands ; 
The others seek his tender kiss, 
And one sweet woman crowns his bliss 

I look upon the rainy wild : 
I have no wife, I have no child : 
There is no tire upon my hearth, 
And none to love me on the earth. 



II. 



THE NEIGHBOR. 

How cool and wet the lowlands lie 
Beneath the cloaked and hooded sky ' 
How softly beats the welcome rain 
Against the plashy window-pane ! 

There is no sail upon the bay : 

We cannot go abroad to day, 

But, darlings, come and take my hand, 

And hear a tale of Fairy-land. 

The baby's little head shall rest 
In quiet on his father's breast, 
And mother, if he chance to stir, 
Shall sing him songs once sung to her. 

Ah, little ones, ye do not fret 
Because the garden grass is wet ; 
Ye love the rains, whene'er they come 
That all day keep your father home. 

No fish to-day the net shall yield; 
The happy oxen graze afield ; 
The thirsty corn will drink its fill, 
And louder sing the woodland rill. 

Then, darlings, nestle round the hearth; 
Ye are the sunshine of the earth : 
You: tender eyes so fondly shine, 
They bring a welcome rain to rr : -j 3 



96 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



in. 

TTN1>ER TBI STARS. 

How the hot revel's fever dies, 
Beneath the stillness of the skies ! 
How suddenly the whirl and glare 
Shoot far away, and this cold air 
Its icy beverage brings, to chase 
The burning wine-flush from my face ! 
The window's gleam still faintly falls, 
And music sounds at intervals, 
Jarring the pulses of the night 
With whispers of profane delight ; 
But on the midnight's awful strand, 
Like some wrecked swimmer flung to 

land, 
I lie, and hear those breakers roar : 
And smile — they cannot harm me more! 

Keep, keep your lamps ; they do not mar 
The silver of a single star. 
The painted roses you display 
Drop from your cheeks, and fade away; 
The snowy warmth you bid me see 
Is hollowness and mockery ; 
The words that make your sin so fair 
Grow silent in this vestal air ; 
The loosened madness of your hair, 
That wrapped me in its snaky coils, 
No more shall mesh me in your toils ; 
Your very kisses on my brow 
Burn like the lips of devils now. 
sacred night! virgin calm! 
Teach me the immemorial psalm 
Of your eternal watch sublime 
Above the grovelling lusts of Time ! 
Within, the orgie shouts and reels ; 
Without, the planets' golden wheels 
Spin, circling through the utmost space ; 
Within, each flushed and reckless face 
Is masked to cheat a haunting care ; 
Without, the silence and the prayer. 
Within, the beast of flesh controls; 
Without, the God that speaks in souls ! 



IV. 

IN THE MORNING. 

The lamps were thick ; the air was hot ; 

The heavy curtains hushed the room ; 
The sultry midnight seemed to blot 

All life but ours in vacant gloom. 

You spoke : my blood in every vein 
Throbbed, as by sudden fever stirred, 



And some strange whirling in my braie 
Subdued niv judgment, as I heard. 

Ah, yes ! when men are dead asleep, 
When all the tongues of day are still 

The heart must sometimes fail to keep 
Its natural poise 'twixt good and ill. 

You knew too well its blind desires, 
Its savage instincts, scarce confessed ■ 

I could not see you touch the wires, 
But felt your lightning in my breagt 

For you, Life's web displayed its flaws 
The wrong which Time transforms tc 
_ right: 

The iron mesh of social laws 
Was but a cobweb in your sight. 

You showed that tempting freedom 
where 

The passions bear their perfect fruit. 
The cheats of conscience cannot scare, 

And Self is monarch absolute. 

And something in me seemed to rise, 
And trample old obedience down : 

The serf sprang up, with furious eyes, 
And clutched at the imperial crown 

That fierce rebellion overbore 
The arbiter that watched within, 

Till Sin so changed an aspect wore, 
It was no longer that of Sin. 

You gloried in the fevered flush 
That spread, defiant, o'er my face, 

Nor thought how soon this morning' 
blush 
Would chronicle the night's disgrace 

I wash my eyes; I bathe my brow ; 

I see the sun on hill and plain : 
The old allegiance claims me now, 

The old content returns again. 

Ah, seek to stop the sober glow 

And healthy airs that come with day 

For when the cocks at dawning crow 
Your evil spirits flee away. 



SUNKEN TREASURES. 

When the uneasy waves of life sub 
side, 
And the soothed ocean sleeps in glasaj 

rest. 



THE VOYAGERS. 



97 



[ see, submerged beyond or storm or 
tide, 
The treasures gathered in its greedy 
breast. 

There still they shine, through the trans- 
lucent Past, 
Far down on that forever quiet floor ; 
!so fierce upheaval of tne deep shall cast 
Them back, — no wave shall wash 
them to the shore. 

[ see them gleaming, beautiful as when 

Erewhile they floated, convoys of my 

fate; 

The barks of lovely women, noble men, 

Full-sailed with hope, and stored with 

Love's own freight. 

The sunken ventures of my heart as 
well, 
Look up to me, as perfect as at dawn ; 
My golden palace heaves beneath the 
swell 
To meet my touch, and is again with- 
drawn. 

There sleep the early triumphs, cheaply 
won, 
That led Ambition to his utmost 
verge, 
And still his visions, like a drowning 
sun, 
Send up receding splendors through 
the surge. 

There wait the recognitions, the quick 
ties, 
Whence the heart knows its kin, 
wherever cast ; 
And there the partings, when the wist- 
ful eyes 
Caress each other as they look their 
last. 

There lie the summer eves, delicious 
eves, 
The soft green valleys drenched with 
light divine, 
The lisping murmurs of the chestnut 
leaves, 
The hand that lay, the eyes that 
looked in mine. 

There lives the hour of fear and rapture 
yet, 
The perilled climax of the passionate 
years ; 

7 



There still the rains of wan December 
wet 
A naked mound, — I cannot see for 
tears ! 

There are they all : they do not fade or 
waste, 
Lapped in the arms of the embalming 
brine ; 
More fair than when their beings mine 
embraced, — 
Of nobler aspect, beauty more di- 
vine. 

I see them all, but stretch my hands in 
vain ; 
No deep-sea plummet reaches where 
they rest ; 
No cunning diver shall descend the 
main, 
And bring a single jewel from its 
breast. 



THE VOYAGEKS. 

No longer spread the sail ! 

No longer strain the oar ! 
For never yet has blown the gale 

Will bring us nearer shore. 

The swaying keel slides on, 

The helm obeys the hand ; 
Fast we have sailed from dawn to dawn 

Yet never reach the land. 

Each morn we see its peaks, 

Made beautiful with snow ; 
Each eve its vales and winding creeks, 

That sleep in mist below. 

At noon we mark the gleam 

Of temples tall and fair ; 
At midnight watch its bonfires streart 

In the auroral air. 

And still the keel is swift, 

And still the wind is free, 
And still as far its mountains lift 

Beyond the enchanted sea. 

Yet vain is all return, 

Though false the goal before ; 
The gale is ever dead astern, 

The current sets to shore. 

shipmates, leave the ropes, — 
A nd what though no one steers. 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



We sail no faster for onr hopes, 
No slower for our fears. 

Howe'er t le bark is blown, 
Lie down and sleep awhile : 

What profits toil, when chance alone 
Can bring us to the isle ? 



SONG. 

Now the days are brief and drear : 
Naked lies the new-born Year 
In his cradle of the snow, 
And the winds unbridled blow, 
And the skies hang dark and low, — 
For the Summers come and go. 

Leave the clashing cymbals mute ! 
Pipe no more the happy flute ! 
Sing no more that dancing rhyme 
Of the rose's harvest-time ; — 
Sing a requiem, sad and low : 
For the Summers come and go. 

Where is Youth ? He strayed away 
Through the meadow-flowers of May. 
Where is Love ? The leaves that fell 
From his trysting-bower, can tell. 
Wisdom stays, sedate and slow, 
And the Summers come and go. 

Yet a" few more years to run, 
Wheeling round in gloom and sun: 
Other raptures, other woes, — 
Toil alternate with Repose : 
Then to sleep where daisies grow, 
While the Summers come and go. 



THE MYSTERY 

Thou art not dead ; thou art not gone 
to dust ; 
No line of all thy loveliness shall 
fall 
To formless ruin, smote by Time, and 
thrust 
Into the solemn gulf that covers 
all. 

rhoo canst not wholly perish, though 
the sod 
Sink with its violets closer to thy 
breast ; 
Though by the feet of generations trod, 
The headstone crumbles from thy 
place of rest. 



The marvel of thy beauty cannot d'\* ; 
The sweetness of thy presence shall 
not fade ; 
Earth gave not all the glory of thine 
eye,— 
Death may not keep what Death has 
never made. 

It was not thine, that forehead strange 
and cold, 
Nor those dumb lips, they hid beneath 
the snow ; 
Thy heart would throb beneath that 
passive fold, 
Thy hands for me that stony clasp 
forego. 

But thou hadst gone, — gone from the 
, dreary land, 
Gone from the storms let loose on 
every hill, 
Lured by the sweet persuasion of a 
hand 
Which leads thee somewhere in the 
distance still. 

Where'er thou art, I know thou wearest 
yet 
The same bewildering beauty, sancti- 
fied 
By calmer joy, and touched with soft 
regret 
For him who seeks, but cannot reach 
thy side. 

I keep for thee the living love of old, 
And seek thy place in Nature, as a 
child 
Whose hand is parted from his play- 
mate's hold, 
Wanders and cries along a lonesome 
wild. 

When, in the watches of my heart, I 
hear 
The messages of purer life, and know 
The footsteps of thy spirit lingering 
near, 
The darkness hides the way that I 
should go. 

Canst thou not bid the empty realms 
restore 
That form, the symbol of thy heaven! j 
part ? 
Or on the fields of barren silence pour 
That voice, the perfect music of th 
heart * 



IN THE MEADOWS. 



99 



Oh once, once bending to these widowed 
lips, 
Take back the tender warmth of life 
from me, 
Or let thy kisses cloud with, swift 
eclipse 
The light of mine, and give me death 
with thee 1 



A PICTURE. 

Sometimes, in sleeping dreams of night, 

Or waking dreams of day, 
The selfsame picture seeks my sight 

And will not fade away. 

I see a valley, cold and still, 

Beneath a leaden sky : 
The woods are leafless on the hill, 

The fields deserted lie. 

The gray November eve benumbs 
The damp and cheerless air ; 

A wailing from the forest comes, 
As of the world's despair. 

But on the verge of night and storm, 

Far down the valley's line, 
I see the lustre, red and warm, 

Of cottage windows shine. 

And men are housed, and in their 
place 

In snug and happy rest, 
Save one, who walks with weary pace 

The highway's frozen breast. 

His limbs, that tremble with the cold, 
Shrink from the coming storm ; 

But underneath his mantle's fold 
His heart beats quick and warm. 

tie hears the laugh of those who sit 

In Home's contented air ; 
He sees the busy shadows flit 

Across the window's glare. 

His heart is full of love unspent, 

His eyes are wet and dim ; 
For in those circles of content 

There is no room for him. 

He clasps his hands and looks above , 

He makes the bitter cry : 
" All, all are happy in their love, — 

All are beloved but I ! " 



Across no threshold streams the light, 

Expectant, o'er his track ; 
No door is opened on the night, 

To bid him welcome back. 

There is no other man abroad 

In all the wintry vale, 
And lower upon his lonely road 

The darkness and the gale. 

I see him through the doleful shades 
Press onward, sad and slow, 

Till from my dream the picture fades, 
And from my heart the woe. 



IN THE MEADOWS. 

I lie in the summer meadows, 

In the meadows all alone, 
With the infinite sky above me, 

And the sun on his midday throne. 

The smell of the flowering grasses 

Is sweeter than any rose, 
And a million happy insects 

Sing in the warm repose. 

The mother lark that is brooding 
Feels the sun on her wings, 

And the deeps of the noonday glitter 
With swarms of fairy things. 

From the billowy green beneath me 
To the fathomless blue above, 

The creatures of God are happy 
In the warmth of their summer love 

The infinite bliss of Nature 

I feel in every vein ; 
The light and the life of Summer 

Blossom in heart and brain. 

But darker than any shadow 
By thunder-clouds unfurled, 

The awful truth arises, 

That Death is in the world ! 

And the sky may beam as ever, 
And never a cloud be curled ; 

And the airs be living odors, 
But Death is in the world ! 

Out of the deeps of sunshine 
The invisible bolt is hurled : 

There 's life in the summer meadowy 
But Death is in the world ! 



100 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



'DOWN IN THE DELL I WAN- 
DERED." 

Down in the dell I wandered, 

The loneliest of our dells, 
Where grow the lowland lilies, 

Dropping their foam- white bells, 
And the brook among the grasses 

Toys with its sand and shells. 

Fair were the meads and thickets 
And sumptuous grew the trees, 

And the folding hills of harvest 
Were thrilled with the rippling breeze, 

But I heard beyond the valley, 
The hum of the plunging seas. 

The birds and the vernal grasses, 
They wooed me sweetly and long, 

But the magic of ocean called me, 
Murmuring free and strong, 

And the voice of the peaceful valley 
Mixed with the billow's song ! 

" Stay in the wood's embraces ! 

Stay in the dell's repose ! " 
' Float on the limitless azure, 

Flecked with its foamy snows ! " 
These were the flattering voices, 

Mingled in musical close. 

Bliss in the soft, green shelter, 
Fame on the boundless blue ; 

Free with the winds of the ages, 
Nestled in shade and dew : 

Which shall I yield forever 1 
Which shall I clasp and woo 1 



SONG. 

They call thee false as thou art fair, 

They call thee fair and free, — 
A creature pliant as the air 

And changeful as the sea : 
But I, who gaze with other eyes, — 

Who stand and watch afar, — 
Behold thee pure as yonder swles 

And steadfast as a star ! 

Thine is a rarer nature, born 

To rule the common crowd, 
And thou dost lightly laugh to scorn 

The hearts before thee bowed. 
Thou dreamest of a different love 

Than comes to such as these ; 
''hat soars as high as heaven above 

Their shallow sympathies. 



A star that shines with flickering spark 

Thou dost not wane away, 
But shed'st adown the purple dark 

The fulness of thy ray : 
A rose, whose odors freely part 

At every zephyr's will,' 
Thou keep'st within thy folded heart 

Its virgin sweetness still ! 



THE PHANTOM. 

Again I sit within the mansion, 

In the old, familiar seat ; 
And shade and sunshine chase each 
other 

O'er the carpet at my feet. 

But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled 
upwards 

In the summers that are past, 
And the willow trails its branches lower 

Than when I saw them last. 

They strive to shut the sunshine wholly 
From out the haunted room ; 

To fill the house, that once was joyful, 
With silence and with gloom. 

And many kind, remembered faces 
Within the doorway come, — 

Voices, that wake the sweeter music 
Of one that now is dumb. 

They sing, in tones as glad as ever, 
The songs she loved to hear ; 

They braid the rose in summer garlands. 
Whose flowers to her were dear. 

And still, her footsteps in the passage, 

Her blushes at the door, 
Her timid words of maiden welcome, 

Come back to me once more. 

And, all forgetful of my sorrow, 

Unmindful of my pain, 
I think she has but newly left me, 

And soon will come again. 

She stays without, perchance, a moment 
To dress her dark-brown hair ; 

I hear the rustle of her garments, — 
Her light step on the stair ! 

fluttering heart ! control thy tumult. 

Lest eyes profane should see 
My cheeks betray the rush of rapture 

Her coming brings to me ! 



THE GARDEN OF ROSES. 



101 



She tarries long : but lo ! a whisper 

Beyond the open door, 
And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, 

A shadow on the floor ! 

Ah ! 't is the whispering pine that calls 
me, 
The vine, whose shadow strays ; 
And my patient heart must still await 
her, 
Nor chide her long delays. 

But my heart grows sick with weary 
waiting, 

As many a time before : 
FJer foot is ever at the threshold, 

Yet never passes o'er. 



SOLDIER'S SONG. 

FROM " FAUST." 

Castles with lofty 

Ramparts and towers, — 
Maidens disdainful 

In Beauty's array, — 

All shall be ours ! 
Bold is the venture, 

Splendid the pay ! 

Lads, let the trumpets 

For us be suing, 
Calling to pleasure, 

Calling to ruin ! 
Stormy our life is ; 

Such is its boon : 
Maidens and castles 

Capitulate soon. 
Bold is the venture, 

Splendid the pay ! 
And the soldiers go marching, 

Marching away. 



THE SHEPHERD'S LAMENT. 

FROM GOETHE. 

Up yonder on the mountain 
A thousand times I stand, 

keant on my crook, and gazing 
Down on the valley-land. 

follow the flock to the pasture ; 

My little dog watches them still . 
have come below, but I know not 

How I descended the hill. 



The beautiful meadow is covered 
With blossoms of every hue ; 

I pluck them, alas ! without knowing 
Whom I shall give them to. 

I seek, in the rain and the tempest, 

A refuge under the tree : 
Yonder the doors are fastened, 

And all is a dream to me. 

Right over the roof of the dwelling 

I see a rainbow stand ; 
But she has departed forever, 

And gone far out in the land. 

Far out in the land, and farther, — 
Perhaps to an alien shore : 

Go forward, ye sheep ! go forward, — 
The heart of the shepherd is sore. 



THE GARDEN OF ROSES. 



FROM TTHLAND. 

Of the beautiful Garden of Roses 

I will sing, with your gracious leave 
There the dames walked forth at morn 

And the heroes fought at eve. 

" My Lord is King of the country, 
But I am the Garden's Queen ; 

His crown with the red gold sparkles, 
And mine with the rose's sheen. 

" So hear me, ye youthful gallants, 
My favorite guardsmen three ; 

The garden is free to the maidens, 
To the knights it must not be. 

" They would trample my beautiful roses, 
And bring me trouble enow," — 

Said the Queen, as she walked in the 
morning, 
With the garland on her brow. 

Then went the three young gallants 
And guarded the gate about ; 

And peacefully blossomed the roses 
And sent their odors out. 

Now came three fair young maidens, 

Virgins that knew not sin : 
" Ye guardsmen, ye gallant three guard*, 
men, 

Open, and let us in ! " 



102 



ROMANCES AND LYRICS. 



And when they had gathered the roses, 
They spake, with looks forlorn : 

* What makes our hands so bloody 
Is it the prick of the thorn 1 " 

And still the three young gallants 

Guarded the gate about, 
And peacefully blossomed tha roses, 

And sent their odors out. 

Now came upon prancing stallions 
Three lawless knights, and cried : 

" Ye guardsmen, ye surly three guards- 
men, 
Open the portal wide ! " 

" The portal is shut and bolted : 
Our naked swords will teach 

That the price of the roses is costly ; 
Ye must pay a wound for each ! ''" 

Then fought the knights and the gal- 
lants, 

But the knights had the victory, 
And the roses were torn and trampled, 

And died with the guardsmen three. 

And when the evening darkened, 
The Queen came by with her train : 

" Now that my roses are trampled 
And my faithful guardsmen slain, 

" I will lay them on leaves of roses, 

And bury them solemnly : 
And where was the Garden of Roses, 

The Garden of Lilies shall be. 

" But who will watch my lilies, 
When their blossoms open white ? 

By day the sun shall be sentry, 
And the moon and the stars by 
night ! " 



THE THREE SONGS. 

FROM UHLAND. 

King Siegfried sat in his lofty hall : 

M Ye harpers ! who sings the best song 
of all ? " 

Then a youth stepped forth with a scorn- 
ful lip, 

The harp in his hand, and the sword at 
his hip. 

' Three songs I know ; but this first song 
Thou, King ! hast forgotten long : 



Thou hast stabbed my brother with mui 

derous hand, — 
Hast stabbed my brother with murder 

ous hand ! 

" The second song I learned aright 
In the midst of a dark and stormy night 
Thou must fight with me for life or 

death, — 
Must fight with me for life or death ! " 

On the banquet-table he laid his harp, 
And they both drew out their swords sc 

sharp ; 
And they fought in the sight of th€ 

harpers all, 
Till the King sank dead in the lofty hall 

" And now for the third, the proudest, 

best! 
I shall sing it, sing it, and never rest : 
King Siegfried lies in his red, red 

blood, — 
Siegfried lies in his red, red blood ! " 



THE SONG OE MIGNON. 

FROM GOETHE. 

Know'st thou the land where citron- 
flowers unfold ? 

Through dusky foliage gleams the 
orange-gold ; 

Soft breezes float beneath the dark-blue 
sky ; 

The mvrtle sleeps, the laurel shoots on 
high 1 
Thither — that land dost thou not 
know? 

Would I with thee, my Beloved, go ! 

Know'st thou the house, its roof on pil- 
lars fair 1 

The long hall shines, the chambers 
glimmer there ; 

And marble statues stand and gaze ou 
me: 

Poor child, they say, what ill was done 
to thee ? 
Thither — that house dost thou not 
know? 

Would I with thee, my Protector, go ! 

Know'st thou the mountain ? Through 

the cloud it soars ; 
In rolling mist the mule his path < i x 

plores ; 



HA RTZ- JOURNEY IN WINTER. 



108 



The ancient dragons haunt its caverns 

deep, 
And o'er the crashing rock the torrents 

leap'! 
Thither — the hills dost thou not 

know ? 
Our pathway leads : Father, let us 

go! 



HARTZ-JOURNEY IN WINTER, 

FROM GOETHE. 

The vulture like — 
Who, on heavy clouds of morning 
With quiet pinion poising, 
Keeps watch for prey — 
Hover, my song ! 

For a God hath 

Unto each his path 

Fixed beforehand, 

Which the fortunate 

Tread till the happy 

Goal is reached : 

But he, the wretched, 

Whose heart is pinched with pain, 

He struggles vainly 

Against the restrictions 

Of Fate's thread of iron. 

Which the shears still unwelcome 

But once shall slit. 

In dusk of thickets 

Crowd the rough-coated deer, 

And with the sparrows 

Have the rich already 

Buried themselves in muck and mire. 

Easy the chariot to follow 
Driven by Fortune's hand, 
Easy as unto the troop 
Following the Prince's entry 
Is the convenient highway. 
But, who fares on by-paths 1 

In the copse he loses his way, 
After him rustle 
The branches together, 
The grass springs up again, 
The wilderness hides him. 

Ah, his pangs who shall solace — 
His, whose balm becomes poison 1 
Who bat hate of man 



Drank from very abundance of love ! 

First despised, and now the despiser, 

Thus in secret he 

His own worth consumes 

In unsatisfying self-love. 

Is there in Thy psalter, 
Father of Love, but a tone 
Unto his ear accessible, 
Then refresh Thou his heart; 
To his clouded sight reveal 
Where are the thousand four^ins 
Near to the thirsty one 
In the Desert. 

Thou, the Creator of joys, 
Giving the fullest cup to each, 
Favor the sons of the chase, 
Tracking signs of their game 
With reckless ardor of youth, 
Murderous, joyous, 
Late avengers of losses, 
Which the peasant so vainly 
Fought for years with his bludgeon, 

But the Solitary fold 

In clouds that are golden ! 

Entwine with winter-green, 

Till the rose again is in blossom, 

The moistened tresses, 

Love, of thy Poet ! 

With thy glimmering flambeau 

Lightest thou him 

Through the waters by night, 

Over fathomless courses 

On desolate lowlands ; 

With the thousand hues of the morning 

Mak'st thou his heart glad ; 

With the sting of the storm 

Bear'st thou him high aloft : 

Winter-torrents plunge from the granite 

In psalms he singeth, 

An altar of gratitude sweet 

Is for him the perilous summit's 

Snow-enshrouded forehead, 

Which with circling phantoms 

Crowned the faith of the races. 

Thou with inscrutable bosom s-tandest 

Mysterious in revelation 

Above the astonished world, 

From clouds down-looking 

On all its kingdoms and splendid shows 

Which thou from the veins dost water 

Of brothers beside thee 



CALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND 
POEMS. 



UALIFORNTAB" BALLADS AND POEMS ; 



MANUELA. 

Fkom the doorway, Manuela, in the 

sunny April morn, 
Southward looks, along the valley, over 

leagues of gleaming corn ; 
Where the mountain's misty rampart 

like the wall of Eden towers, 
And the isles of oak are sleeping on a 

painted sea of flowers. 

All the air is full of music, for the win- 
ter rains are o'er, 

And the noisy magpies chatter from the 
hudding sycamore ; 

Blithely frisk unnumbered squirrels, 
over all the grassy slope ; 

Where the airy summits brighten, nim- 
bly leaps the antelope. 



tell 



wh( 



Gentle eyes of Manuela ! 

fore do ye rest 
On the oak's enchanted islands and the 

flowery ocean's breast 1 
Tell me wherefore, down the valley, ye 

have traced the highway's mark 
Far beyond the belts of timber, to the 

mountain-shadows dark ? 

Ah, the fragrant bay may blossom and 

the sprouting verdure shine 
With the tears of amber dropping from 

the tassels of the pine, 
And the morning's breath of balsam 

lightly brush her sunny cheek, — 
Little aecketh Manuela of the tales of 

Spring they speak. 

Whon the Summer's burning solstice 
on the mountain-harvests glowed, 

SJhe had watched a gallant horseman 
riding down the valley road ; 



Many times she saw him turning, look- 
ing back with parting thrills, 

Till amid her tears she lost him, in the 
shadow of the hills. 



Ere the cloudless moons were over, he 

had passed the Desert's sand, 
Crossed the rushing Colorado and the 

wild Apache Land, 
And his laden mules were driven, when 

the time of rains began, 
With the traders of Chihuahua, to the 

Fair of San Juan. 

Therefore watches Manuela, — therefore 

lightly doth she start, 
When the sound of distant footsteps 

seems the beating of her heart ; 
Not a wind the green oak rustles or the 

redwood branches stirs, 
But s\e hears the silver jingle of his 

ringing bit and spurs. 

Often, out the hazy distance, come the 

horsemen, day by day, 
But they come not as Bernardo, — she 

can see it, far away ; 
Well she knows the airy gallop of his 

mettled alazan, 
Light as any antelope upon the Kills of 

Gavilan. 



She would know him 'mid a thousand, 

by his free and gallant air ; 
By the f eatly-knit sarape, such as wealthy 

traders wear ; 
By his broidered calzoneros and his sad 

die, gayly spread, 
With its cantle rimmed with silver, and 

its horn a lion's head. 



108 



CALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND POEMS. 



None like him the light riata on the 
maddened bull can throw ; 

None amid the mountain-canons track 
like him the stealthy doe ; 

And at all the Mission festals, few in- 
deed the revellers are 

Who can dance with him the jota, touch 
with him the gay guitar. 

He has said to Manuela, and the echoes 
linger still 

In the cloisters of her bosom, with a se- 
cret, tender thrill, 

When the bay again has blossomed, and 
the valley stands in corn, 

Shall the bells of Santa Clara usher in 
the wedding morn. 

He has pictured the procession, all in 
holiday attire, 

And the laugh of bridal gladness, when 
they see the distant spire ; 

Then their love shall kindle newly, and 
the world be doubly fair 

In the cool, delicious crystal of the sum- 
mer morning air. 

Tender eyes of Manuela ! what has 
dimmed your lustrous beam ? 

'T is a tear that falls to glitter on the 
casket of her dream. 

Ah, the eye of Love must brighten, if 
"its watches would be true, 

For the star is falsely mirrored in the 
rose's drop of dew ! 

But her eager eyes rekindle, and her 
breathless bosom thrills, 

As she sees a horseman moving in the 
shadow of the hills : 

Now in love and fond thanksgiving they 
may loose their pearly tides, — 

'T is the alazan that gallops, 't is Ber- 
nardo's self that rides ! 



THE FIGHT OF PASO DEL MAR. 

Gusty and raw was the morning, 

A fog hung over the seas, 
And its gray skirts, rolling inland, 

Were torn by the mountain trees ; 
fc*o sound was heard but the dashing 

Of waves on the sandy bar, 
TVhen Pablo of San Diego 

Rode down to the Paso del Mar. 



The pescador, out in his shallop, 

Gathering his harvest so wide, 
Sees the dim bulk of the headland 

Loom over the waste of the tide ; 
He sees, like a white thread, the pathway 

Wind round on the terrible wall. 
Where the faint, moving speck of the 
rider 

Seems hovering close to its fall. 

Stout Pablo of San Diego 

Rode down from the hills behind ; 
With the bells on his gray mule tinkling 

He sang through the fog and wind. 
Under his thick, misted eyebrows 

Twinkled his eye like a star, 
And fiercer he sang as the sea-winds 

Drove cold on the Paso del Mar. 

Now Bernal, the herdsman of Chino, 

Had travelled the shore since dawn, 
Leaving the ranches behind him — 

Good reason had he to be gone ! 
The blood was still red on his dagger, 

The fury was hot in his brain, 
And the chill, driving scud of the break- 
ers 

Beat thick on his forehead in vain. 

With his poncho wrapped gloomily 
round him, 
He mounted the dizzying road, 
And the chasms and steeps of the head- 
land 
Were slippery and wet, as he trod : 
Wild swept the wind of the ocean, 

Rolling the fog from afar, 
When near him a mule-bell came tink- 
ling, 
Midway on the Paso del Mar. 

" Back ! " shouted Bernal, full fiercely, 
And " Back ! " shouted Pablo, in 
wrath, 
As his mule halted, startled and shrink- 
ing. 
On the perilous line of the path. 
The roar of devouring surges 

Came up from the breakers' hoarse 
war ; 
And " Back, or you perish ! " cried 
Bernal, 
" I turn not on Paso del Mar ! " 

The gray mule stood firm as the head 
land : 
He clutched at the jingling rein, 



THE PINE FOREST OF MONTEREY. 



109 



When Pablo rose up in his saddle 

And smote till he dropped it again. 
A wild oath of passion swore Bernal, 

And brandished his dagger, still red, 
While fiercely stout Pablo leaned for- 
ward, 
And fought o'er his trusty mule's 
head. 

They fought till the black wall below 
them 

Shone red through the misty blast ; 
Stout Pablo then struck, leaning farther, 

The broad breast of Bernal at last. 
And, frenzied with pain, the swart herds- 
man 

Closed on him with terrible strength, 
And jerked him, despite of his struggles, 

Down from the saddle at length. 

They grappled with desperate madness, 

On the slippery edge of the wall ; 
They swayed on the brink, and together 

Reeled out to the rush of the fall. 
A cry of the wildest death-anguish 

Rang faint through the mist afar, 
And the riderless mule went homeward 

From the fight of the Paso del Mar. 



THE PINE FOREST OF MONTE- 
REY. 

What point of Time, nnchronicled, and 

dim 
As yon gray mist that canopies your 

heads, 
Took from the greedy wave and gave 

the sun 
Your dwelling-place, ye gaunt and hoary 

Pines ? 
When, from the barren bosoms of the 

hills, 
With scanty nurture, did ye slowly 

climb, 
Of these remote and latest-fashioned 

shores 
The first-born forest 1 Titans gnarled 

and rough, 
Such as from out subsiding Chaos grew 
To clothe the cold loins of the savage 

earth, 
What fresh commixture of the elements, 
What earliest thrill of life, the stubborn 

soil 
Blow-mastering, engendered ye to give 
The hills a mantle and the wind a voice "? 



Along the shore ye lift your rugged 

arms, 
Blackened with many fires, and with 

hoarse chant, — 
Unlike the fibrous lute your co-mates 

touch 
In elder regions, — fill the awful stops 
Between the crashing cataracts of the 

surf. 
Have ye no tongue, in all your sea of 

sound, 
To syllable the secret, — no still voice 
To give your airy myths a shadowy 

form, 
And make us of lost centuries of lore 
The rich inheritors? 

The sea-winds pluck 
Your mossy beards, and gathering as 

they sweep, 
Vex your high heads, and with your 

sinewy arms 
Grapple and toil in vain. A deeper roar, 
Sullen and cold, and rousing into spells 
Of stormy volume, is your sole reply. 
Anchored in firm-set rock, ye ride the 

blast, 
And from the promontory's utmost 

verge 
Make signal o'er the waters. So ye 

stood, 
When, like a star, behind the lonely 

sea, 
Far shone the white speck of Grijalva's 

sail; 
And when, through driving fog, the 

breaker's sound 
Frighted Otondo's men, your spicy 

breath 
Played as in welcome round their rusty 

helms, 
And backward from its staff shook out 

the folds 
Of Spain's emblazoned banner. 

Ancient Pines, 

Ye bear no record of the years of man. 

Spring is your sole historian, — Spring, 
that paints 

These savage shores with hues of Para- 
dise , 

That decks your branches with a freshet 
green, 

And through your lonely, far canadai 
pours 

Her floods of bloom, r: vers of opal dye 

That wander down to lakes and widen 
ing- seas 



110 



CALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND POEMS. 



Of blossom and of fragrance, — laugh- 
ing Spring, 

That with her wanton blood refills your 
veins, 

And weds ye to your juicy youth again 

With a new ring, the while your rifted 
bark 

Drops odorous tears. Y our knotty fibres 
yield 

To the light touch of her unfailing pen, 

As freely as the lupin's violet cup. 

Ye keep, close-locked, the memories of 
her stay, 

As in their shells the avelones keep 

Morn's rosy flush and moonlight's pearly 
glow. 

The wild northwest, that from Alaska 
sweeps, 

To drown Point Lobos with the icy scud 

And white sea-foam, may rend your 
boughs and leave 

Their blasted antlers tossing in the gale ; 

Your steadfast hearts are mailed against 
the shock, 

And on their annual tablets naught in- 
scribe 

Of such rude visitation. Ye are still 

The simple children of a guiltless soil, 

And in your natures show the sturdy 
grain 

That passion cannot jar, nor force re- 
lax, 

Nor -aught but sweet and kindly airs 
compel 

To gentler mood. No disappointed heart 

Has sighed its bitterness beneath your 
shade ; 

No angry spirit ever came to make 

Your silence its confessional ; no voice, 

Grown harsh in Crime's great market- 
place, the world, 

Tainted with blasphemy your evening 
hush 

And aromatic air. The deer alone, — 

The ambushed hunter that brings down 
the deer, — 

The fisher wandering on the misty shore 

To watch sea - lions wallow in the 
flood, — 

The shout, the sound of hoofs chat chase 
and fly, 

Whon swift vaqueros, dashing through 
the herds, 

Ride down the angry bull, — perchance, 
the song 

!k>me Indian heired of long-forgotten 
sires, — 

Disturb your solemn chorus. 



Stately Pines, 
But few more years arcund the promon 

tory 
Your chant will meet the thunders of 

the sea. 
No more, a barrier to the encroaching 

sand, 
Against the surf ye '11 stretch defiant 

arm, 
Though with its onset and besieging 

shock 
Your firm knees tremble. Never more 

the wind 
Shall pipe shrill music through your 

mossy beards, 
Nor sunset's yellow blaze athwart your 

heads 
Crown all the hills with gold. Your 

race is past : 
The mystic cycle, whose unnoted birth 
Coeval was with yours, has run its sands, 
And other footsteps from these changing 

shores 
Frighten its haunting Spirit. Men will 

come 
To vex your quiet with the din of toil ; 
The smoky volumes of the forge will 

stain 
This pure, sweet air; loud keels will 

ride the sea, 
Dashing its glittering sapphire into 

foam ; 
Through all her green canadas Spring 

will seek 
Her lavish blooms in vain, and clasping 

ye, 

mournful Pines, within her glowing 

arms, 
Will weep soft rains to find ye fallen low. 
Fall, therefore, yielding to the fiat ! 

Fall, 
Ere the maturing soil, whose first dull 

life 
Fed your belated germs, be rent and 

seamed ! 
Fall, like the chiefs ye sheltered, stern. 

unbent, 
Your gray beards hiding memorable 

soars ! 
The winds will mourn ye, and the bar- 
ren hills 
Whose breast ye clothed ; and when tb« 

pauses come 
Between the crashing cataracts of the 

surf, 
A funeral silence, terrible, profound, 
Will make sad answer to the listening 



THE SUMMER CAMP. 



Ill 



EL CANELO. 



Now saddle El Canelo ! — the freshen- 
ing wind of morn, 

Down in the flowery vega, is stirring 
through the corn ; 

The thin smoke of the ranches grows 
red with coming day, 

And the steed is fiercely stamping, in 
haste to be away. 



My glossy-limbed Canelo, thy neck is 

curved in pride, 
Thy slender ears pricked forward, thy 

nostril straining wide ; 
And as thy quick neigh greets me, and 

I catch thee by the mane, 
I 'm off with tbe winds of morning, — 

tbe chieftain of the plain ! 



I feel the swift air whirring, and see 

along our track, 
From the flinty-payed sierra, the sparks 

go streaming back ; 
And I clutch my rifle closer, as we sweep 

the dark defile, 
Where the red guerillas ambush for 

many a lonely mile. 

IV. 

They reach not El Canelo ; with the 
swiftness of a dream 

We 've passed the bleak Nevada, and 
San Fernando's stream ; 

But where, on sweeping gallop, my bul- 
let backward sped, 

The keen-eyed mountain vultures will 
wheel above the dead. 



On ! on, my brave Canelo ! we 've dashed 
the sand and snow 

From peaks upholding heaven, from des- 
erts far below, — 

We Ve thundered through the forest, 
while the crackling branches rang, 

And trooping elks, affrighted, from lair 
and covert sprang. 



We 've swum the swollen torrent, — 

we 've distanced in the race 
The baying wolves of Pinos, that panted 

with the chase ; 
And still thy mane streams backward, at 

every thrilling bound, 
And still thy measured hoof-stroke beats 

with its moraine: sound ! 



The seaward winds are wailing through 
Santa Barbara's pines, 

And like a sheathless sabre, the far Pa- 
cific shines ; 

Hold to thy speed, my arrow ! at night- 
fall thou shalt lave 

Thy hot and smoking haunches beneath 
his silver wave ! 



VIII. 

My head upon thy shoulder, along the 

sloping sand 
We '11 sleep as trusty brothers, from out 

the mountain land ; 
The pines will sound in answer to the 

surges on the shore, 
And in our dreams, Canelo, we Tl make 

the journey o'er. 



THE SUMMER CAMP. 

Here slacken rein ; here let the dusty 

mules 
Unsaddled graze ! The shadows of the 

oaks 
Are on our brows, and through their 

knotted boles 
We see the blue round of the boundless 

plain 
Vanish in glimmering heat : these aged 



The island speck that beckoned us afar 
Over the burning level, — as we came, 
Spreading to shore and cape, and bays 

that ran 
To leafy headlands, balanced on the 

haze, 
Faint and receding as a cloud in air. 

The mules may roam unsaddled : w« 

will lie 
Beneath the mighty trees, whose shad* 

like dew 



112 



CALIFORNIA^ BALLADS AND POEMS. 



Poured from the urns of Twilight, dries 

the sweat 
Of sunburnt brows, and on the heavy 

lid 
And heated eyeball sheds a balm, than 

sleep 
Fa" sweeter. We have done with 

travel, — we 
Art weary now, who never dreamed of 

Rest, 
For until now did never Rest unbar 
Her palace-doors, nor until now our ears 
The silence drink, beyond all melodies 
Of all imagined sound, that wraps her 

realm. 
Here, where the desolating centuries 
Have left no mark ; where noises never 

came 
From the far world of battle and of toil ; 
Where God looks down and sends no 

thunderbolt 
To smite a human wrong, for all is good, 
She finds a refuge. We will dwell with 

her. 

No more of travel, where the flaming 

sword 
Of the great sun divides the heavens ; 

no more 
Of climbing over jutty steeps that swim 
In driving sea-mist, where the stunted 

tree 
Slants inland, mimicking the stress of 

winds 
When wind is none ; of plain and steam- 
ing marsh 
Where the dry bulrush crackles in the 

heat ; 
Of camps by starlight in the columned 

vault 
Of sycamores, and the red, dancing fives 
That build a leafy arch, efface and build, 
And sink at last, to let the stars peep 

through ; 
Of canons grown with pine and folded 

deep 
In golden mountain-sides ; of airy 

sweeps 
Of mighty landscape, lying all alone 
Like some deserted world. They tempt 

no more. 
It is enough that such things were : too 

blest, 
comrades mine, to lie in Summer's 

arms, 
Lodged in her Camp of Rest, we will 

not dream 
That they may vex us more. 



The sun goes down : 
The dun mules wander idly : motionless 
Beneath the stars, the heavy foliage 

lifts 
Its rich, round masses, silent as a cloud 
That sleeps at midday on a mountain 

peak. 
All through the long, delicious night no 

stir 
Is in the leaves ; spangled with broken 

gleams, 
Before the pining Moon, — that fain 

would drop 
Into the lap of this deep quiet, — swerve 
Eastward the shadows : Day comes on 

again. 
Where is the life we led? Whither 

hath fled 
The turbulent stream that brought us 

hither ? How, 
So full of sound, so lately dancing down 
The mountains, turbid, fretted into 

foam, — 
How has it slipped, with scarce a gurg- 
ling coil, 
Into this calm transparence, noise or 

wind 
Hath ruffled never 1 Ages past, per- 
chance, 
Such wild turmoil was ours, or did 

some Dream 
Malign, that last night nestled in the oak, 
Whisper our ears, when not a star could 

see? 
Give o'er the fruitless doubt : we will 

not waste 
One thought of rest, nor spill one radi 

ant drop 
From the full goblet of this summer 

balm. 

Day after day the mellow sun slides o'er, 
Night after night the mellow moon. 

The clouds 
Are laid, enchanted : soft and bare, the 

heavens 
Fold to their breast the dozing Earth, 

that lies 
In languor of deep bliss. At times a 

breath, 
Remnant of gales far off, forgotten now, 
Rustles the never-fading leaves, then 

drops 
Affrighted into silence. Near a slough 
Of dark, still water, in the early morn 
The shy coyotas prowl, or trooping elk 
From the close covert of the bulrush 

fields 



THE SUMMER CAMP. 



m 



Their dewy antlers toss : nor other 

sight, 
Save when the falcon, poised on wheel- 
ing wings, 
His bright eye on the burrowing coney, 

cuts 
His arrowy plunge. Along the distant 

trail, 
Dim with the heat, sometimes the 

miners go, 
Bearded and rough, the swart Sonorians 

drive 
Their laden asses, or vaqueros whirl 
The lasso's coil and carol many a 

song, 
Native to Spanish hills. As when we 

lie 
On the soft brink of Sleep, not pillowed 

quite 
To blest fovgetfulness, some dim ar- 
ray 
Of masking forms in long procession 

comes, 
A sweet disturbance to the poppied 

sense, 
That will not cease, but gently holds it 

back 
From slumber's haven, so their figures 

pass, 
With such disturbance cloud the blessed 

calm, 
And hold our beings, ready to slip forth 
O'er unmolested seas, still rocking near 
The coasts of Action. 

Other dreams are ours, 
Of shocks that were, or seemed ; whereof 

our souls 
Feel the subsiding lapse, as feels the 

sand 
Of tropic island-shores the dying pulse 
Of storms that racked the Northern sea. 

My Soul, 
I do believe that thou hast toiled and 

striven, 
And hoped and suffered wrong. I do 

believe 
Great aims were thine, deep loves and 

fiery hates, 
And though I may have lain a thousand 

years 
Beneath these Oaks, the baffled trust of 

Youth, 
Thy first keen sorrow, brings a gentle 

pang 
To temper joy. Nor will the joy I 

drank 
To wild intoxication, quit my neart : 



It was no dream that still has power to 

droop 
The soft-suffusing lid, and lift desire 
Beyond this rapt repose. No dream, 

dear love ! 
For thou art with me in our Camp cif 

Peace. 

Friend, whose history is writ in deeds 

That make your life a marvel, come no 
gleams 

Of past adventure, echoes of old storms, 

And Battle's tingling hum of flying 
shot, 

To touch your easy blood and tempt 
you o'er 

The round of yon blue plain ? Or have 
they lost, 

Heroic days, the virtue which the heart 

That did their hest rejoicing, proved so 
high? 

Back through the long, long cycles of 
our rest 

Your memory travels : through this 
hush you hear 

The Gila's dashing, feel the yawning 
jaws 

Of black volcanic gorges close you in 

On waste and awful tracts of wilder- 
ness, 

Which other than the eagle's cry, or 
bleat 

Of mountain-goat, hear not : the scorch- 
ing sand 

Eddies around the tracks your fainting 
mules 

Leave in the desert : thorn and cactus 
pierce 

Your bleeding limbs, and stiff with rag- 
ing thirst 

Your tongue forgets its office. Leave 
untried 

That cruel trail, and leave the wintry 
hills 

And leave the tossing sea ! The Sum- 
mer here 

Builds us a tent of everlasting calm. 

How shall we wholly sink our lives in 

thee, 
Thrice-blessed Deep 1 O many-natured 

Soul, 
Chameleon-like, that, steeped in every 

phase 
Of wide existence, tak'st the hue of 

each, 
Here with the silent Oaks and azure 

Air 



114 



CALIFORNIAN BALLADS AND POEMS. 



Incorporate grow ! Here loosen one by 

one 
Thy vexing memories, burdens of the 

Past, 
Till all unrest be laid, and strong De- 
sire 
Sleeps on his nerveless arm. Content to 

find 
In liberal Peace thy being's high result 
And crown of aspiration, gather all 
The dreams of sense, the reachings of 

the mind 
For ampler issues and dominion vain, 
To fold them on her bosom, happier 

there 
Than in exultant action : as a child 
Forgets his meadow butterflies and 

floAvers, 
Upon his mother's breast. 

It may not be. 
Not in this Camp, in these enchanted 

Trees, 
But in ourselves, must lodge the calm 

we seek, 
Ere we can fix it here. We cannot 

take 
From outward nature power to snap the 

curse 
Which clothed our birth; and though 

't were easier 
Thia hour to die than yield the blessed 

cup 
Wherefrom our hearts divinest comfort 

draw, 
It clothes us yet, and yet shall drive us 

forth 
To breast the world. Then come : we 

will not bide 
To tempt a ruin to this paradise, 
Fulfilling Destiny. A mighty wind 
Would gather on the plain, a cloud 

arise 
To blot the sky, with thunder in its 

heart, 
And the black column of the whirlwind 

spin 
Out of the cloud, straight downward to 

this grove, 
Take by their heads the shuddering 

trees, and wrench 
With fearful clamor, limb from limb, 

till Rest 
Bhould flee forever. Rather set at 

once 
Our faces towards the noisy world again, 
And gird our loins for action. Let us 

go ! 



THE BISON TRACK. 



Strike the tent ! the sun has risen ; no* 

a vapor streaks the dawn, 
And the frosted prairie brightens to the 

westward, far and wan : 
Prime afresh the trusty rifle, — sharpen 

well the hunting spear — 
For the frozen sod is trembling, and a 

noise of hoofs I hear ! 



ii. 

Fiercely stamp the tethered horses, as 
they snuff the morning's fire ; 

Their impatient heads are tossing, and 
they neigh with keen desire. 

Strike the tent ! the saddles wait us, — 
let the bridle-reins be slack, 

For the prairie's distant thunder has be- 
trayed the bison's track. 



See ! a dusky line approaches : hark, 

the onward-surging roar, 
Like the din of wintry breakers on a 

sounding wall of shore ! 
Dust and sand behind them whirling, 

snort the foremost of the van, 
And their stubborn horns are clashing 

through the crowded caravan. 



Now the storm is down upon us : let the 
maddened horses go ! 

We shall ride the living whirlwind, 
though a hundred leagues it blow! 

Though the cloudy manes should thick- 
en, and the red eyes' angry glare 

Lighten round us as we gallop through 
the sand and rushing air J 



Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in oui 
wild, resistless race, 

And a sound, like mighty waters, thun- 
der down the desert space : 

Yet the rein may not be tightened, noi 
the rider's eye look back — 

Death to him whose speed should slack- 
en, on the maddened bison's 
track ! 



THE BISON TRACK. 



115 



Now the trampling herds are threaded, 

and the chase is close and warm 
For the giant bull that gallops in the 

edges of the storm : 
Swiftly hurl the whizzing lasso, — swing 

your rifles as we run : 
Bee ! the dust is red behind him, — 

shout, my comrades, he is won ! 



Look not on him as he staggers, — 't is 

the last shot he will need ! 
More shall fall, among his fellows, ere 

Ave run the mad stampede, — 
Ere we stem the brinded breakers, while 

the wolves, a hungry pack, 
Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on 

the bloody Bison Track ! 



EARLIER POEMS. 



EAELIEE POEMS. 



THE HARP: AN ODE. 



When bleak winds through the North- 
ern pines were sweeping, 
Some hero-skald, reclining on the 
sand, 
\ttuned it first, the chords harmonious 
keeping 
With murmuring forest and with 
moaning strand : 
Ajid when, at night, the horns of mead 
foamed over, 
And torches flared around the wassail 
board, 
It breathed no song of maid, nor sigh 
of lover, 
It rang aloud the triumphs of the 
sword ! 
It mocked the thunders of the ice-ribbed 
ocean, 
With clenched hands beating back 
the dragon's prow; 
It gave Berserker arms their battle mo- 
tion, 
And swelled the red veins on the Vi- 
king's brow ! 



N r o myrtle, plucked in dalliance, ever 
sheathed it, 
To melt the savage ardor of its flow ; 
The only gauds wherewith its lord en- 
wreathed it, 
The lusty fir and Druid mistletoe. 
Thus bound, it kept the old, accustomed 
cadence, 
Whether it pealed through slumber- 
ous ilex bowers 
In stormy wooing of Byzantine maidens, 
Or shook Trinacria's languid lap of 
flowers ; 



Whether Genseric's conquering march 
it chanted, 
Till cloudy Atlas rang with Gothic 
staves, 
Or where gray Calpe's pillared feet are 
planted, 
Died grandly out upon the unknown 



Not unto Scania's bards alone belonging, 
The craft that loosed its tongues of 
changing sound, 
For Ossian played, and ghosts of heroes, 
thronging, 
Leaned on their spears above the 
misty mound. 
The Cambrian eagle, round his eyrie 
winging, 
Heard the wild chant through mount- 
ain-passes rolled, 
When bearded throats chimed in with 
mighty singing, 
And monarchs listened, in their 
torques of gold : 
Its dreary wail, blent with the sea-mews' 
clangor, 
Surged round the lonely keep of Pen- 
maen-Mawr ; 
It pealed aloud, in battle's glorious an- 
ger, 
Behind the banner of the Blazing 
Star! 



The strings are silent ; who shall dare 
to wake them, 
Though later deeds demand their liv- 
ing powers ? 
Silent in other lands, what hand shall 
make them 
Leap as of old, to shape the songs of 
ours? 



120 



EARLIER POEMS. 



Here, while the sapless bulk of Europe 
moulders, 
Springs the rich blood to hero- veins 
unsealed, — 
Source of that Will, that on its fearless 
shoulders 
Would bear the world's fate lightly 
as a shield : 
Here moves a larger life, to grander 
measures 
Beneath our sky and through our for- 
ests rung ; 
Why sleeps the harp, forgetful of its 
treasures, — 
Buried in songs that never yet were 
eumr ? 



Great, solemn songs, that with majestic 
sounding 
Should swell the Nation's heart from 
sea to sea ; 
Informed with power, with earnest hope 
abounding 
And prophecies of triumph yet to be ! 
Songs, by the wild wind for a thousand 
ages 
Hummed o'er our central prairies, 
vast and lone ; 
Glassed by the Northern lakes in crystal 
pages, 
And carved by hills on pinnacles of 
- stone; 
Songs chanted now, where undiscovered 
fountains 
Make in the wilderness their babbling 
home, 
And through the deep-hewn canons of 
the mountains 
Plunge the cold rivers in perpetual 
foam ! 



Bung but by these : our forests have no 
voices ; 
Rapt with no loftier strain our rivers 
roll; 
Far in the sky, no song-crowned peak 
rejoices' 
In words that give the silent air a soul. 
Wake, mighty Harp ! and thrill the 
shores that hearken 
For the first peal of thine immortal 
rhyme : 
Oall from the shadows that begin to 
darken 
The beaming forms of our heroic 
time : 



Sing us of deeds, that on thy strings 
outsoaring 
The ancient soul they glorified so 
long, 
Shall win the world to hear thy grand 
restoring, 
And own thy latest thy sublimes t 
song! 



SERAPION. 

Come hither, Child ! thou silent, shy 
Young creature of the glorious eye ! 
Though never yet by ruder air 
Than father's kiss or mother's prayer 
Were stirred the tendrils of thy hair, 
The sadness of a soul that stands 
Withdrawn from Childhood's frolic 

bands, 
A stranger in the land, I trace 
Upon thy brow's cherubic grace 
The tender pleadings of thy face, 
Where other stars than Joy and Hope 
Have cast thy being's horoscope. 

For thee, the threshold of the world 
Is yet with morning dews impearled ; 
The nameless radiance of Birth 
Imbathes thy atmosphere of Earth, 
And, like a finer sunshine, swims 
Round every motion of thy limbs : 
The sweet, sad wonder and surprise 
Of waking glimmers in thine eyes, 
And wiser instinct, purer sense, 
And gleams of rare intelligence 
Betray the converse held by thee 
With the angelic family. 

Come hither, Boy ! For while I press 
Thy lips' confiding tenderness, 
Less broad and dark the spaces be 
Which Life has set 'twixt thee and me 
Thy soul's white feet shall soon depart 
On paths I walked with eager heart ; 
God give thee, in His kindly grace, 
A brighter road, a loftier place ! 
I see thy generous nature flow 
In boundless trust to friend and foe, 
And leap, despite of shocks and harnif 
To clasp the world in loving arms. 
I see that glorious circle shrink 
Back to thy feet, at Manhood's brink, 
Narrowed to one, one image fair, 
And all its splendor gathered there. 
The shackles of experience then 
Sit lightly as on meaner men : 
In flinty paths thy feet may bleed, 



TAURUS. 



121 



Thorns pierce thy flesh, thou shalt not 

heed, 
Till when, all panting from the task, 
Thine arms outspread their right shall 

ask, 
Thine arms outspread that right shall 

fly, 
'I he star shall burst, the splendor die ! 
Go, with thy happier brothers play, 
As heedless and as wild as they ; 
Seek not so soon thy separate way, 
Thou lamb in Childhood's field astray ! 

Whence earnest thou ? what angel bore 
Thee past so many a fairer shore 
Of guarding love, and guidance mild, 
To drop thee on this barren wild ? 
Thy soul is lonely as a star, 
When all its fellows muffled are, — 
A single star, whose light appears 
To glimmer through subduing tears. 
The father who begat thee sees 
In thee no deeper mysteries 
Than load his heavy ledger's page, 
And swell for him thy heritage. 
A hard, cold man, of punctual face, 
Renowned in Credit's holy-place, 
Whose very wrinkles seem arrayed 
In cunning hieroglyphs of trade, — 
Whose gravest thought but just unlocks 
The problems of uncertain stocks, — 
Whose farthest flights of hope extend 
From dividend to dividend. 
Thy mother, — but a mother's name 
Too sacred is, too sweet for blame. 
No doubt she loves thee, — loves the 

shy, 
Strange beauty of thy glorious eye ; 
Loves the soft mouth, whose drooping 

line 
Is silent music ; loves to twine 
Thy silky hair in ringlets trim ; 
To watch thy lightsome play of limb ; 
But, God forgive me ! I, who find 
The soul within that beauty shrined, 
I love thee more, I know thy worth 
Better, than she who gave thee birth. 

Are they thy keepers ? They would 

thrust 
The priceless jewel in the dust ; 
Would tarnish in their careless hold 
The vessel of celestial gold. 
Who gave them thee ? What fortune 

lent 
Their hands the delicate instrument, 
WTiich finer hands might teach to hymn 
The harmonies of Seraphim, 



Which they shall make discordant soon, 
The sweet btlls jangled, out of tune ? 
Mine eyes are dim : I cannot see 
The purposes of Destiny, 
But than my love Heaven could not 

shine 
More lovingly, if thou wert mine ! 
Rest then securely on my heart : 
Give me thy trust : my child thou art, 
And I shall lead thee through the years 
To . Hopes and Passions, Loves and 

Fears, 
Till, following up Life's endless plan 
A strong and self-dependent Man, 
I see thee stand and strive with men : 
Thy Father now, thy Brother then. 



" MOAN, YE WILD WINDS ! " 

Moan, ye wild winds ! around the pane, 
And fall, thou drear December rain ! 
Fill with your gusts the sullen day, 
Tear the last clinging leaves away ! 
Reckless as yonder naked tree, 
No blast of yours can trouble me. 

Give me your chill and stern embrace, 
And pour your baptism on my face 
Sound in mine ears the airy moan 
That sweeps in desolate monotone, 
Where on the unsheltered hill- top beat 
The marches of your homeless feet. 

Moan on, ye winds ! and pour, thou 

rain ! 
Your stormy sobs and tears are vain, 
If shed for her whose fading eyes 
Will open soon on Paradise : 
The eye of Heaven shall blinded be, 
Or ere ye cease, if shed for me. 



TAURUS. 



The Scorpion's stars crawl down behind 
the sun, 
And when he drops below the verge 
of day, 
The glittering fangs, their fervid course! 
run, 
Cling to his skirts and follow him 
away. 
Then, ere the heels of flying Capricorn 
Have touched the w r estern mountain'? 
darkening rim, 



122 



EARLIER POEMS. 



[ mark, stern Taurus, through the twi- 
light gray 

The glinting of thy horn, 
And sullen front, uprising large and 
dim, 
Bent to the starry hunter's sword, at 



Thy hoofs, unwilling, climh the sphery 
vault ; 
Thy red eye tremhles with an angry 
glare, 
When the hounds follow, and in fierce 
asfcault 
Bay through the fringes of the lion's 
hair. 
The stars that once were mortal in their 
love, 
And by their love are made immortal 
now, 
Cluster like golden bees upon thy mane, 
When thou, possessed with 
Jove, 
Bore sweet Europa's garlands on thy 
brow, 
And stole her from the green Sicilian 
plain. 



Type of the stubborn force that will not 
bend 
To loftier art, — soul of defiant breath 
That blindly stands and battles to the 
end, 
Nerving resistance with the throes of 
death, — 
Majestic Taurus ! when thy wrathful 
eye 
Flamed brightest, and thy hoofs a 
moment stayed 
Their march at Night's meridian, I was 
born : % 

But in the western sky, 
Like sweet Europa, Love's fair star 
delayed, 
?o hang her garland on thy silver horn. 



Thoi giv^st that temper of enduring 
mould, 
That slights the wayward bent of 
Destiny, — 
fcuch as sent forth the shaggy Jarls of 
old 
To launch theii dragons on the un- 
known sea : 



Such as keep strong the sinews of th« 
sword, 
The proud, hot blood of battle, — 
welcome made 
The headsman's axe, the rack, the 
martyr-fire, 

The ignominious ccrd, 
When but to yield, had pamps and 
honors laid 
On heads that moulder in ignoble mire. 



Night is the summer when the soul 
grows ripe 
With Life's full harvest : of her myr- 
iad suns, 
Thou dost not gild the quiet herdsman's 

Nor royal state, that royal actions 
shuns. 
But in the noontide of thy ruddy 
stars 
Thrive strength, and daring, and the 
blood whence springs 
The Heraclidean seed of heroes ; then 
Were sundered Gaza's bars ; 
Then, 'mid the smitten Hydra's 
loosened rings, 
His slayer rested, in the Lernean fen. 



Thine is the subtle element that turns 
To fearless act the impulse of the 
hour, — 
The secret fire, whose flash electric 
burns 
To every source of passion and of 
power. 
Therefore I hail thee, on thy glittering 
track : 
Therefore I watch thee, when the 
night grows dark, 
Slow-rising, front Orion's sword along 
The starry zodiac, 
And from thy mystic beam demand a 
spark 
To warm my soul with more heroic- 
song. 



AUTUMNAL VESPERS. 

The clarion Wind, that blew so loud at 
morn, 
Whirling a thousand leaves frora 
every bough 



AUTUMNAL VESPERS. 



128 



Of the purple woods, has not a whis- 
per now ; 
flushed on the uplands i& the hunts- 
man's horn, 
And huskers whistling round the tented 
corn : 
The snug warm cricket lets his idock 
run down, 
Scared by the chill, sad hour that makes 
forlorn 

The Autumn's gold and brown. 

The light is dying out on field and 
wold ; 
The life is dying in the leaves and 



The World's last breath no longer 
dims the glass 
Of waning sunset, yellow, pale, and 

cold. 
His genial pulse, which Summer made 
so bold, 
Has ceased. Haste, Night, and spread 
thy decent pall ! 
The silent, stiffening Frost makes havoc : 
fold 

The darkness over all ! 

The light is dying out o'er all the 
land, 
And in my heart the light is dying. 

She, 
My life's best life, is fading silently 
From Earth, from me, and from the 

dreams we planned, 
Since first Love led us with his beaming 
hand 
From hope to hope, yet kept his 
crown in store. 
The light is dying out o'er all the 
land : 

To me it comes no more. 

The blossom of my heart, she shrinks 
away, 
Stricken with deadly blight : more 

wan and weak 
Her love replies in blanching lip and 
cheek, 
A.nd gentler in her dear eyes, day by 

day. 
God, in Thy mercy, bid the arm ie- 

Which through her ^eing smites to 
dust my own ! 
Thou gav'st the seed thy sun and 
showers ; why slay 

The blossoms vet unblown ? 



In vain, — i vain! God will not bid 
the Spring 
Replace with sudden green the An 

tumn's gold ; 
And as the night-mists, gathering 
damp and cold, 
Strike up the vales where watercourses 

sing, 
Death's mists shall strike along her 
veins, and cling 
Thenceforth forever round her glori- 
ous frame : 
For all her radiant presence, May shall 
bring 
A memory and a name. 

What know the woods, that soon shall 
be so stark 1 
What know the barren fields, the song- 
less air, 
Locked in benumbing cold, of blooms 
more fair 
In mornings ushered by the April lark ? 
Weak solace this, which grief will never 
hark ; 
Blind as a bud in stiff December's 
mail, 
To lift her look beyond the frozen dark 
No memory can avail. 

I never knew the autumnal eves could 
wear, 
With all their pomp, so drear a hue of 

Death ; 
I never knew their still and solemn 
breath 
Could rob the breaking heart of strength 

to bear, 
Feeding the blank submission of despair. 
Yet, peace, sad soul ! reproach and 
pity shine 
Suffused through starry tears : bend 
thou in prayer, 

Rebuked by Love divine. 

Our life is scarce the twinkle of a star 
In God's eternal day. Obscure and 

dim 
With mortal clouds, it yet may beam 
for Him, 
And darkened here, shine fair to spheres 

afar. 
I will be patient, lest my sorrow bar 
His grace and blessing, and I fall su- 
pine: 
In my own hands my want and weak- 
ness are, — 
My strength, God ! in Thine 



124 



EARLIER POEMS. 



ODE TO SHELLEY. 

i. 

Why art thou dead 1 Upon the hills 
once more 
The golden mist of waning Autumn 
lies; 
The slow-pulsed billows wash along the 
shore, 
And phantom isles are floating in the 
skies. 
They wait for thee : a spirit in the sand 
Hushes, expectant for thy coming 
tread ; 
The light wind pants to lift thy trem- 
bling hair ; 

Inward, the silent land 
Lies with its mournful woods ; — why 
art thou dead, 
When Earth demands that thou shalt 
call her fair 1 



Why art thou dead ? I too demand thy 
song, 
To speak the language yet denied to 
mine, 
Twin-doomed with thee, to feel the scorn 
of Wrong, 
To. worship Beauty as a thing divine ! 
Thou art afar: wilt thou not soon re- 
turn 
To tell me that which thou hast never 
told? 
To clasp my throbbing hand, and, by 
the shore 

Or dewy mountain-fern, 
Pour out thy heart as to a friend of 
old, 
Touched with a twilight sadness ? Nev- 
ermore. 



t could have told thee all the sylvan 

j°y 

Of trackless woods ; the meadows far 

apart, 
Within whose fragrant grass, a lonely 

boy, 
I thought of God ; the trumpet at my 

heart, 
When on bleak mountains roared the 

midnight storm, 
And I was bathed in lightning, broad 

and grand ■ 



Oh, more than all, with soft and rever 
ent breath 

And forehead flushing warm, 
I would have led thee through the 
summer land 
Of early Love, and past my dreams oi 
Death ! 



IV. 

In thee, Immortal Brother ! had I found 
That Voice of Earth, that fails my 
feebler lines : 
The awful speech of Eome's sepulchral 
ground ; 
The dusky hymn of Vallombrosa's 
pines ! 
From thee the noise of Ocean would 
' have taken 
A grand defiance round the moveless 
shores, 
And vocal grown the Mountain's silent 
head: 

Canst thou not yet awaken 
Beneath the funeral cypress ? Earth 
implores 
Thy presence for her son ; — why art 
thou dead ? 



I do but rave : for it is better thus. 
Were once thy starry nature given to 
mine, 
In the one life which would encircle 
us 
My voice would melt, my soul be lost 
in thine. 
Better to bear the far sublimer pain 
Of Thought that has not ripened into 
speech, 
To hear in silence Truth and Beauty 
sing 

Divinely to the brain ; 
For thus the Poet at the last shall 
reach 
His own soul's voice, nor crave a broth- 
er's string. 



SICILIAN WINE. 

I 've drunk Sicilia's crimson wine ! 
The blazing vintage pressed 
From graoes on Etna's breast, 
What time the mellowing autumn sat 

did shine : 
I 've drunk the wine ! 



SICILIAN WINE. 



125 



I feel its blood divine 
Poured on the sluggish tide of mine, 
Till, kindling slow, 
Its fountains glow 
With the light that swims 
On their trembling brims, 
And a molten sunrise floods my limbs ! 
What do I here ? 
I've drunk the wine, 
And lo ! the bright blue heaven is clear 
Above the ocean's bluer sphere, 
Seen through the long arcades of pine, 
Inwoven and arched with vine ! 
The glades are green below ; 
The temple shines afar ; 
Above, old Etna's snow 
Sparkles with many an icy star : 
I see the mountain and its marble wall, 
Where gleaming waters fall 
And voices call, 
Singing and calling 
Like chorals falling 

Through pearly doors of some Olym- 
pian hall, 
Where Love holds bacchanal. 

Sicilian wine ! Sicilian wine ! 

Summer, and Music, and Song divine 

Are thine, — all thine ! 

A sweet wind over the roses plays ; 

The wild bee hums at my languid ear ; 

The mute-winged moth serenely strays 

On the downy atmosphere, 

Like hovering Sleep, that overweighs 

My lids with his shadow, yet comes not 
near. 

Who '11 share with me this languor ? 

With me the juice of Etna sip 1 

Who press the goblet's lip, 

Refusing mine the while with love's en- 
chanting anger ? 

Would I were young Adonis now! 

With what an ardor bold 

Within my arms I'd fold 

Fair Aphrodite of Idalian mould, 

And let the locks that. hide her gleam- 
ing brow 

Fall o'er my shoulder as she lay 

With the fair swell of her immortal 
breast 

Upon my bosom pressed, 

living Olympian thrills to its enamored 
clay ! 

Bacchus and Pan have fled : 
No heavy Satyr crushes with his tread 
The verdure of the meadow ground, 
But in their stead 



The Nymphs are leading a bewildering 

round, 
Vivid and light, as o'er some flowering 

rise 
A dance of butterflies, 
Their tossing hair with slender lilies 

crowned, 
And greener ivy than o'erran 
The brows of Bacchus and the reed of 

Pan! 

I faint, I die : , 

The flames expire, 
That made my blood a lurid fire : 
Steeped in delicious weariness I lie. 
Oh lay me in some pearled shell, 
Soft-balanced on the rippling sea, 
Where sweet, cheek-kissing airs maj 

wave 
Their fresh wings over me ; 
Let me be wafted with the swell 
Of Nereid voices : let no billow rave 
To break the cool green crystal of the 

sea. 
For I will wander free 
Past the blue islands and the fading 

shores, 
To Calpe and the far Azores, 
And still beyond, and wide away, 
Beneath the dazzling wings of tropic 

day, 
Where, on unruffled seas, 
Sleep the green isles of the Hesperidee 

The Triton's trumpet calls : 

I hear, I wake, I rise : 

The sound peals up the skie« 

And mellowed Echo falls 

In answer back from Heaven's cerulean 

walls. 
Give me the lyre that Orpheus played 

upon, 
Or bright Hyperion, — 
Nay, rather come, thou of the mighty 

bow, 
Come thou below, 

Leaving thy steeds unharnessed go ! 
Sing as thou wilt, my voice shall dare 

to follow, 
And I will sun me in thine awful 

glow, 
Divine Apollo ! 

Then thou thy lute shalt twine 
With Bacchic tendrils of the glorioui 

vine 
That gave Sicilian wine : 
And henceforth when the breezes run 
Over its clusters, ripening in the sun, 



126 



EARLIER POEMS. 



The leaves shall still be playing. 
Unto thy lnte its melody repaying, 
And I, that quaff, shall evermore be free 
To mount thy car and ride the heavens 
with thee ! 



STORM-LINES. 

When the rains of November are dark 
on the hills, and the pine-trees 
incessantly roar 

To the sound of the wind-beaten crags, 
and the floods that in foam 
through their black channels 
pour : 

When the breaker-lined coast stretches 
dimly afar through the desolate 
waste of the gale, 

And the clang of the sea-gull at night- 
fall is heard from the deep, like a 
mariner's wail : 

When the gray sky drops low, and the 
forest is bare, and the laborer is 
housed from the storm, 

And the world is a blank, save the light 
of his home through the gust 
shining redly and warm : — 

Go thou forth, if the brim of thy heart 

with its tropical fulness of life 

overflow, — 
If the sun of thy bliss in the zenith is 

hung, nor a shadow reminds thee 

of woe ! 

Leave the home of thy love ; leave thy 

labors of fame ; in the rain and 

the darkness go forth, 
When the cold winds unpausingly wail 

as they drive from the cheerless 

expanse of the North, 

Thou shalt turn from the cup that was 

mantling before ; thou shalt hear 

the eternal despair 
Of the hearts that endured and were 

broken at last, from the hills and 

the sea and the air ! 

Thou shalt hear how the Earth, the ma- 
ternal, laments for the children 
she nurtured with tears,— 

How the forest but deepens its wail and 
the breakers their roar,, with the 
march of the years ! 



Then the gleam of thy hearth-fire shall 

dwindle away, and the lips of thy 

loved ones be still ; 
And thy soul shall lament in the moan 

of the storm, sounding wide on 

the shelterless hill. 

All the woes of existence shall stand at 
thy heart, and the sad eyes of 
myriads implore, 

In the darkness and storm of their 
being, the ray, streaming out 
through thy radiant door. 

Look again : how that star of thy Para- 
dise dims, through the warm 
tears, unwittingly shed; — 

Thou art man, and a sorrow so bitterly 
wrung never fell on the dust of 
the Dead ! 

Let the rain of the midnight beat cold 
on thy cheek, and the proud 
pulses chill in thy frame, 

Till the love of thy bosom is grateful 
and sad, and thou turn'st from 
the mockery of Fame ! 

Take with humble acceptance the gifts 
of thy life ; let thy joy touch the 
fountain of tears ; 

For the soul of the Earth, in endurance 
and pain, gathers promise of hap- 
pier years ! 



THE TWO VISIONS. 

Through days of toil, through nightly 

fears, 
A vision blessed my heart for years ; 
And so secure its features grew, 
My heart believed the blessing true. 

I saw her there, a household dove, 
In consummated peace of love, 
And sweeter joy and saintlier grace 
Breathed o'er the beauty of her face : 

The joy and grace of love at rest, 
The fireside music of the breast, 
When vain desires and restless scheme! 
Sleep, pillowed on our early dreams. 

Nor her alone : beside her stood, 
In gentler types, our love renewed ; 
Our separate beings one, in Birth, — 
The darling miracles of Earth. 



THE WAVES. 



127 



The mother's smile, the children's kiss, 
And home's serene, abounding bliss ; 
The fruitage of a life that bore 
But idle summer blooms before ; 

Such was the vision, far and sweet, 
That, still beyond Time's lagging feet, 
Lay glimmering in my heart for years, 
Dim with the mist of happy tears. 

That vision died, in drops of woe, 
In blotting drops, dissolving slow : 
Now, toiling day and sorrowing night, 
Another vision fills my sight. 

A cold mound in the winter snow ; 
A colder heart at rest below ; 
A life in utter loneness hurled, 
And darkness over all the world. 



STORM SONG. 

The clouds are scudding across the 
moon, 
A misty light is on the sea ; 
The wind in the shrouds has a wintry 
tune, 
And the foam is flying free. 

Brothers, a night of terror and gloom 
Speaks in the cloud and gathering 
roar, 
Thank God, He has given us broad sea- 
room, 
A thousand miles from shore. 

Down with the hatches on those who 
sleep ! 
The wild and whistling deck have 
we; 
Good watch, my brothers, to-night we '11 
keep, 
While the tempest is :>n the sea ! 

Though the rigging shriek in his terrible 

grip, 
And the naked spars be snapped 
away, 
Lashed to the helm, we 11 drive our 
ship 
In the teeth of the whelming spray ! 

Hark ! how the surges o'erleap the deck ! 

Hark ! how the pitiless tempest raves ! 
ih, daylight will look tpon many a 
wreck 

Drifting over the desert waves. 



Yet, courage, brothers ! we trust the 
wave, 
"With God above us, our guiding 
chart : 
So, whether to harbor or ocean-grave, 
Be it still with a cheery heart ! 



SONG. 

I plucked for thee the wilding rose 

And wore it on my breast, 
And there, till daylight's dusky close, 

Its silken cheek was pressed ; 
Its desert breath was sweeter far 

Than palace-rose could be, 
Sweeter than all Earth's blossoms are, 

But that thou gav'st to me. 

I kissed its leaves, in fond despite 

Of lips that failed my own, 
And Love recalled tbat sacred night 

His blushing flower was blown. 
I vowed, no rose should rival mine, 

Though withered now, and pale, 
Till those are plucked, whose white 
buds twine 

Above thy bridal veil. 



THE WAVES. 



Children are we 

Of the restless sea, 
Swelling in anger or sparkling in glee , 

We follow our race, 

In shifting chase, 
Over the boundless ocean-space ! 
Who hath beheld where the race begun ? 

Who shall behold it run ? 

Who shall behold it run ? 



When the smooth airs keep 
Their noontide sleep, 
We dimple the cheek of the dreaming 
deep ; 
When the rough winds come, 
From their cloudy home, 
At the tap of the hurricane's thunder- 
drum, 
Deep are the furrows of wrath w« 
plough, 
Ridging his darkened brow ! 
Ridging his darkened brow ! 



128 



EARLIER POEMS. 



Over us bom, 

The unclouded Morn 
Trumpets her joy with the Triton's 
horn, 

And sun and star 

By the thousand are 
Orbed in our glittering, near and far : 
And the splendor of Heaven, the pomp 
of Day, 

Shine in our laughing spray ! 

Shine in our laughing spray I 



We murmur our spell 

Over sand and shell ; 
We girdle the reef with a combing swell ; 

And bound in the vice 

Of the Arctic ice, 
We build us a palace of grand de- 
vice, — 
Walls of crystal and splintered spires, 

Flashing with diamond fires ! 

Flashing with diamond fires ! 



In the endless round 

Of our motion and sound, 
The fairest dwelling of Beauty is found, 

And with voice of strange 

And solemn change, 
The elements speak in our world-wide 

range, 
Harping the terror, the might, the mirth, 

Sorrows and hopes of Earth ! 

Sorrows and hopes of Earth ! 



SONG. 

From the bosom of ocean I seek thee, 

Thou lamp of my spirit afar, 
As the seaman, adrift in the darkness, 

Looks up for the beam of his star ; 
And wben on the moon-lighted water 

The spirits of solitude sleep, 
My soul, in the light of thy beauty, 

Lies hushed as the waves of the deep. 

As the shafts of the sunrise are broken 

Far over the glittering sea, 
Vhou hast dawned on the waves of my 
dreaming, 
And each thought has a sparkle of 
thee. 



And though, with the white sail dis- 
tended, 

I speed from the vanishing shore, 
Thou wilt give to the silence of ocean 

The spell of thy beauty the more. 



SONNET. 

TO G. H. B. 

You comfort me as one that, knowing 

Fate, 
Would paint her visage kinder than you 

deem; 
You say, my only bliss that is no dream 
She clouds, but makes not wholly deso- 
late. 
Ah, Friend ! your heart speaks words of 

little weight 
To veil that sadder knowledge, learned 

in song, 
And 'gainst your solace Grief has made 

me strong : 
The Gods are jealous of our low estate ; 
They give not Fame to Love, nor Love 

to Fame ; 
Power cannot taste the joy the humbler 

share, 
Nor holy Beauty breathe in Luxury's 

air, 
And all in darkness Genius feeds his 

flame. 
We build and build, poor fools ! and all 

the while 
Some Demon works unseen, and saps 

the pile. 



THE WAYSIDE DREAM. 

The deep and lordly Danube 

Goes winding far below ; 
I see the white-walled hamlets 

Amid his vineyards glow, 
And southward, through the ether, shin! 

The Styrian hills of snow. 

O'er many a league of landscape 
Sleeps the warm haze of noon ; 

The wooing winds come freighted 
Witn messages of June, 

And down among the corn and flower* 
I hear the water's tune. 

The meadow-lark is singing, 
As if it still were morn ; 



STEYERMARK. 



129 



Within the dark pine-forest 

The hunter winds his horn, 
And the cuckoo's shy, complaining 
note 

Mocks the maidens in the corn. 

I watch the cloud-armada 

Go sailing up the sky, 
Lulled by the murmuring mountain 
grass 

Upon whose bed I lie, 
And the faint sound of noonday chimes 

That in the distance die. 

A warm and drowsy sweetness 

Is stealing o'er my brain ; 
I see no more the Danube 

Sweep through his royal plain 
I hear no more the peasant girls 

Singing amid the grain. 

Soft, silvery wings, a moment 
Have swept across my brow : 

Again I hear the water, 
But its voice is sweeter now, 

And the mocking-bird and oriole 
Are singing on the bough ; 

The elm and linden branches 
Droop close and dark o'erhead, 

And the foaming forest brooklet 
Leaps down its rocky bed : 

Be still, my heart ! the seas are passed, — 
The paths of home I tread ! 

The showers of creamy blossoms 

Are on the linden spray, 
And down the clover meadow 

They heap the scented hay, 
And glad winds toss the forest leaves, 

All the bright summer day. 

Old playmates ! bid me welcome 

Amid your brother-band ; 
Give me the old affection, — 

The glowing grasp of hand ! 
I seek no more the realms of old, — 

Here is my Fatherland ! 

Come hither, gentle maiden, 

Who weep'st in tender joy ! 
The rapture of thy presence 

Repays the world's annoy, 
And calms the wild and ardent hoar* 

Which warms the waudering boy. 

In many a mountain fastness, 
By many a river's foam, 
9 



And through the gorgeous cities, 

'T was loneliness to roam ; 
For the sweetest music in my heart 

Was the olden songs of home. 

Ah, glen and grove are vanished, 
And friends have faded now ! 

The balmy Styrian breezes 
Are blowing on my brow, 

And sounds again the cuckoo's call 
From the forest's inmost bough. 

Fled is that happy vision, — 

The gates of slumber fold ; 
I rise and journey onward 

Through valleys green and old, 
Where the far, white Alps announce 
the morn, 

And keep the sunset's gold. 
Upper Austria, 1845 



STEYERMARK. 

In Steyormark, — green Steyermark, 

The fields are bright and the forests 
dark, — 

Bright with the maids that bind the 
sheaves, 

Dark with the arches of whispering 
leaves. 

Voices and streams and sweet bells 
chime 

Over the land, in the harvesf-time, 

And the blithest songs of the finch and 
lark 

Are heard in the orchards of Steyer- 
mark. 

In Steyermark, — old Steyermark, 
The mountain summits are white ai.d 

stark ; 
The rough winds furrow their trackless 

snow, 
But the mirrors of crystal are smooth 

below ; 
The stormy Danube clasps the wave 
That downward sweeps with the Dravs 

and Save, 
And the Euxine is whitened with many 

a bark, 
Freighted with ores of Steyermark ! 

In Steyermark, — rough Steyermark, 
The anvils ring from dawn till dark ; 
The molten streams of the furna<M> 
glare, 



130 



EARLIER POEMS. 



Blurring with crimson the midnight 

air; 
The lusty voices of forgemen chord, 
Chanting the ballad of Siegfried's 

Sword, 
While the hammers swung by their 

arms so stark 
Strike to the music of Steyermark ! 

In Steyermark, — dear Steyermark, 
Each heart is light as the morning 

lark ; 
There men are framed in the manly 

mould 
Of their stalwart sires, of the times of 

old, 
And the sunny blue of the Styrian sky 
Grows soft in the timid maiden's eye, 
When love descends with the twilight. 

dark, 
In the beechen groves of Steyermark. 



TO A BAVARIAN GIRL. 

Thou, Bavaria's brown-eyed daughter, 

Art a shape of joy, 
Standing by the Isar's water 

Witb thy brother-boy ; 
In thy dream, with idle fingers 

Threading through his curia, 
On thy cheek the sun's kiss lingers, 

Rosiest of girls ! 

Woods of glossy oak are ringing 

With the echoes bland, 
While thy generous voice is singing 

Songs of Fatherland, — 
Songs, that by the Danube's river 

Sound on hills of vine, 
And where waves in green light quiver, 

Down the rushing Rhine. 

Life, with all its hues and changes, 

To thy heart doth lie 
Like those dreamy Alpine ranges 

In the southern sky ; 
Where in haze the clefts are hidden, 

Which the foot should fear, 
And the crags that fall unbidden 

Startle not the ear. 

Where the village maidens gather 

At the fountain's brim, 
3r in sunny harvest weather, 

With the reapers trim ; 
Where the autumn fires are burning 

On the vintage-hills ; 



Where the mossy wheels are turning 
In the ancient mills ; 

Where from ruined robber-towers 

Hangs the ivy's hair, 
And the crimson foxbell flowers 

On the crumbling stair : — 
Everywhere, without thy presence, 

Would the sunshine fail, 
Fairest of the maiden peasants ! 

Flower of Isar's vale ! 
Munich, 1845. 



IN ITALY. 

Dear Lillian, all I wished is won ! 
I sit beneath Italia's sun, 
Where olive-orchards gleam and quire! 
Along the banks of Arno's river. 

Through laurel leaves, the dim green 

light 
Falls on my forehead as I write, 
And the sweet chimes of vesper, ring 

Blend with the contadina's singing. 

Rich is the soil with Fancy's gold ; 
The stirring memories of old 
Rise thronging in my haunted vision, 
And wake my spirit's young ambition. 

But as the radiant sunsets close 
Above Val d' Arno's bowers of rose, 
My soul forgets the olden glory, 
And deems our love a dearer story. 

Thy words, in Memory's ear, outchime 
The music of the Tuscan rhyme ; 
Thou standest here — the gentle 

hearted — 
Amid the shades of bards departed. 

I see before thee fade away 
Their garlands of immortal bay, 
And turn from Petrarch's passion 

glances 
To my own dearer heart-romances. 

Sad is the opal glow that fires 
The midnight of the cypress spires, 
And cold the scented wind that close* 
The heart of bright Etruscan roses. 

A single thought of thee effaced 
The fair Italian dream I chased ; 




' ■'■ n :'r ,,Tn ; 



A FUNERAL THOUGHT. 



131 



For the true clime of song and sun 
Lies in the heart which mine hath won ! 
Iiobekce, 1845. 



A BACCHIC ODE. 

Wine, — bring wine ! 

Let the crystal beaker flame and shine, 

Brimming o'er with the draught divine ! 

The crimson glow 

Of the lifted cup on my forehead throw, 

Like the sunset's flush on a field of snow. 

I love to lave 

My thirsty lip in the ruddy wave ; 

Freedom bringeth the wine so brave ! 

The world is cold : 

Sorrow and pain have gloomy hold, 

Chilling the bosom warm and bold. 

Doubts and fears 

Veil the shine of my morning years, — 

My life's lone rainbow springs from tears. 

But Eden-gleams 

Visit my soul in immortal dreams, 
When the wave of the goblet burns and 
beams. 

Not from the Rhine, 

Not from fields of Burgundian vine, 

Bring me the bright Olympian wine ! 

Not with a ray 

Born where the winds of Shiraz play, 

Or the fiery blood of the bright Tokay. 

Not where the glee 

Of Falernian vintage echoes free, 

Or the Chian gardens gem the sea. 

But wine, — bring wine, 
Royally flushed with its growth divine, 
In the crystal depth of my soul to 
shine ! 

Whose glow was caught 

From the warmth which Fancy's sum- 
mer brought 

To the vintage-fields m the Land of 
Thought. 

Rich and free 

To my thirsting soul will the goblet be, 

Poured by the Hebe, Poesy. 



A FUNERAL THOUGHT. 



When the stem Genius, to whose hol- 
low tramp 
Echo the startled chambers of the soul, 
Waves his inverted torch o'er that pale 
camp 
Where the archangel's final trumpets 
roll, 
I would not meet him in the chamber 
dim, 
Hushed, and pervaded with a name- 
less fear, 
When the breath flutters and the senses 
swim, 
And the dread hour is near. 



Though Love's dear arms might clasp 
me fondly then 
As if to keep the Summoner at bay, 
And woman's woe and the calm grief 
of men 
Hallow at last the chill, unbreathing 
clay — 
These are Earth's fetters, and the soul 
would shrink, 
Thus bound, from Darkness and the 
dread Unknown, 
Stretching its arms from Death's eternal 
brink, 
Which it must dare alone. 



But in the awful silence of the sky, 
Upon some mountain summit, yet 
untrod, 
Through the blue ether would I climb, 
to die 
Afar from mortals and alone with 
God! 
To the pure keeping of the stainless air 
Would I resign my faint and flutter- 
ing breath, 
And with the rapture of an answered 
prayer 
Receive the kiss of Death. 



Then to the elements my frame woniu 
turn; 
No worms should riot on my coffined 
clay, 



132 



EARLIER POEMS. 



But the cold limbs, from that sepulchral 
urn, 
In the slow storms of ages waste 
away. 
Loud winds and thunder's diapason high 
Should be my requiem through the 
coming time, 
And the white summit, fading in the 
sky, 
My monument sublime. 



THE NORSEMAN'S RIDE. 

The frosty fires of Northern starlight 

Gleamed on the glittering snow, 
And through the forest's frozen branches 

The shrieking winds did blow ; 
A floor of blue, translucent marble 

Kept ocean's pulses still, 
When, in the depth of dreary midnight, 

Opened the burial hill. 

Then while a low and creeping snud' 
der 
Thrilled upward through the ground, 
The .Norseman came, as armed for bat- 
tle, 
In silence from his mound : 
He, who was mourned in solemn sor- 
row 
By many a swordsman bold, 
And harps that wailed along the ocean, 
Struck by the Skalds of old. 

Sudden, a swift and silver shadow 

Rushed up from out the gloom, — 
A horse that stamped with hoof impa- 
tient, 
Yet noiseless, on the tomb. 
" Ha, Surtur ! let me hear thy tramp- 
ing. 
Thou noblest Northern steed, 
Whose neigh along the stormy head- 
lands 
Bade the bold Viking heed ! " 

He mounted : like a north-light streak- 
ing 

The sky with flaming bars, 
They, on the winds so wildly shrieking, 

Shot up before the stars. 
" Is this thy mane, my fearless Surtur, 

That streams against my breast ? 
Is this thy neck, that curve of moon- 
light, 

Which Helva's hand caressed ? 



" No misty breathing strains thy nos 
tril, 

Thine eye shines blue and cold, 
Yet, mounting up our airy pathway, 

I see thy hoofs of gold ! 
Not lighter o'er the springing rain 
bow 

Walhalla's gods repair, 
Than we, in sweeping journey over 

The bending bridge of air. 

" Far, far around, star-gleams are spans 
ling 
Amid the twilight space 
And Earth, that lay so cold ana aaife 
ling, 
Has veiled her dusky face 
Are those the Nornes that beckon od 
ward 
To seats at Odin's board, 
Where nightly by the hands or heroes 
The foaming mead is poured 1 

"Tis Skuld ! her star-eye speaks the 
glory 

That waits the warrior's soul, 
When on its hinge of music opens 

The gateway of the Pole, — 
When Odin's w r arder leads the hero 

To banquets never done, 
And Freya's eyes outshine in summer 

The ever-risen sun. 

" On ! on ! the Northern lights are 
streaming 

In brightness like the morn, 
And pealing far amid the vastness, 

I hear the Gjallarhorn : 
The heart of starry space is throb 
bing 

With songs of minstrels old, 
And now, on high Walhalla's portal, 

Gleam Surtur's hoofs of gold ! " 



THE CONTINENTS. 

I had a vision in that solemn hour, 

Last of the year sublime, 
Whose wave sweeps downward, with its 
dying power 

Rippling the shores of Time. 
On the bleak margin of that hoary sea 

My spirit stood alone, 
Watching the gleams of phantom His 
tory, 

Which through the darkness shone 



THE CONTINENTS. 



133 



riien, when the bell of midnight ghostly 
hands 
Tolled for the dead year's doom, 
[ saw the spirits of Earth's ancient lands 

Stand up amid the gloom ! 
The crowned deities, whose reign be- 
gan 
In the forgotten Past, 
When first the fresh world gave to sov- 
ereign Man 
Her empires green and. vast. 

First queenly Asia, from the fallen 
thrones 

Of twice three thousand years, 
Came with the woe a grieving goddess 
owns, 

"Who longs for mortal tears. 
The dust of ruin to her mantle clung 

And dimmed her crown of gold, 
While the majestic sorrows of her tongue 

From Tyre to Indus rolled : 

" Mourn with me, sisters, in my realm 
of woe, 

Whose only glory streams 
From its lost childhood, like the arctic 
glow 

Which sunless Winter dreams ! 
In the red desert moulders Babylon, 

And the wild serpent's hiss 
Echoes in Petra's palaces of stone, 

And waste Persepolis. 

" Gone are the deities that ruled en- 
shrined 
In Elephanta's caves, 
And Brahma's wailings fill the fragrant 
wind 
That ripples Ganges' waves : 
The ancient gods amid their temples 
fall, 
And shapes of some near doom, 
Trembling and waving on the Future's 
wall, 
More fearful make my gloom ! " 

Then, from her seat, amid the palms em- 
bowered 
That shade the lion-land, 
Swart Africa in dusky aspect towered, 

The fetters on her hand ! 
Backward she saw, from out her drear 
eclipse, 
The mighty Theban years, 
A.nd the deep anguish of her mournful 
lips 
Interpreted her tear? 



" Woe for my children, whom your 
gyves have bound 
Through centuries of toil ; 
The bitter wailings of whose bondage 
sound 
From many an alien soil ! 
Leave me but free, though the eternal 
sand 
Be all my kingdom now, — 
Though the rude splendors of barbaric 
land 
But mock my crownless brow ! " 

There was a sound, like sudden trumpets 
blown, 
A ringing, as of arms, 
When Europe rose, a stately amazon, 

Stern in her mailed charms. 
She brooded long beneath the weary 
bars 
That chafed her soul of flame, 
And like a seer, who reads the awful 
stars, 
Her words prophetic came : 

" I hear new sounds along the ancient 
shore, 
Whose dull old monotone 
Of tides, that broke on many a system 
hoar, 
Moaned through the ages lone : 
I see a gleaming, like the crimson morn 

Beneath a stormy sky, 
And warning throes, which long my 
breast has borne, 
Proclaim the struggle nigh." 

radiant-browed, the latest born of 
Time! 
How waned thy sisters old, 
Before the splendors of thine eye sub- 
lime, 
And mien erect and bold ! 
Free, as the winds of thine own forests 
are, 
Thy brow beamed lofty cheer, 
And Day's bright oriflamme, the Morn- 
ing Star, 
Flashed on thy lifted spear. 

" I bear no weight" — rang thine exult 
ing tones — 
" Of memories weird and vast ; 
No crushing heritage of iron thrones, 
Bequeathed by some dead Past ; 
But hopes, that give my children power 
to climb 
Above the old-world fears — 



134 



EARLIER POEMS. 



Whose prophecies forernn the latest 
time, 
And lead the crowning years'. 

* Like spectral lamps, that burn before 
a tomb, 
The ancient lights expire ; 
I hold a torch, that floods the fading 
gloom 
With everlasting fire : 
Crowned with my constellated stars, I 
stand 
Beside the foaming sea, 
And from the Future, with a victor's 
hand, 
Claim empire for the Free ! " 
January, 1848 



L'ENVOI. 

I've passed the grim and threatening 
warders 

That guard the vestibule of Song, 
And traced the print of bolder foot- 
steps 

The lengthened corridors along ; 
Where every thought I strove to blazon 

Beside the bannered lays of old, 
Was dim below some bright escutcheon, 

Or shaded by some grander fold. 



1 saw, in veiled and shadowy gKmpses, 

The solemn halls expand afar, 
And through the twilight, half despaii 

Looked trembling up to find a star ; 
Till, in the rush of wings, awakened 

My soul to utterance free and strong, 
And with impassioned exultation, 

I revelled in the rage of Song ! 

Then, though the world beside, unheed- 
ing, 

Heard other voices than my own, 
Thou, thou didst mark the broken 
music, 

And cheer its proud, aspiring tone : 
Thou cam'st in many a lovely vision 

To lead my ardent spirit on, 
Thine eye my morning-star of promise, 

The sweet anticipant of dawn. 

And if I look to holier altars, 

Thou still art near me, as of old, 
And thou wilt give the living laurel, 

When the shrined Presence I behold. 
Take, then, these echoes of thy being, 

My lips have weakly striven to 
frame ; 
For when I speak what thou inspir- 
est, 

I know my songs are nearest fame. 



SINCE 1861. 



SINCE 1861. 



THEOUGH BALTIMORE. 



T was Friday m©rn : the train drew 
near 

The city and the shore. 
Far through the sunshine, soft and clear, 
We saw the dear old flag appear, 
And in our hearts arose a cheer 

For Baltimore. 



ii. 

Across the hroad Patapsco's wave, 

Old Fort McHenry bore 
The starry banner of the brave, 
As when our fathers went to save, 
Or in the trenches find a grave 
At Baltimore. 



Before us, pillared in the sky, 

We saw the statue soar 
Of Washington, serene and high : — 
Could traitors view that form, nor fly 1 
Could patriots see, nor gladly die 

For Baltimore 1 



' city of our country's song ! 

By that swift aid we bore 
When sorely pressed, receive the throng 
Who go to shield our flag from wrong, 
And give us welcome, warm and strong, 

In Baltimore ! " 



We had no arms ; as friends we came, 

As brothers evermore, 
To rally round one sacred name, — 
The charter of our power and fame : 
We never dreamed of guilt and shame 

In Baltimore. 



The coward mob upon us fell : 
McHenry's flag they tore : 
Surprised, borne backward by the swell 
Beat down with mad, inhuman yell, 
Before us yawned a traitorous hell 
In Baltimore ! 



The streets our soldier-fathers trod 

Blushed with their children's gore 
"We saw the craven rulers nod, 
And dip in blood the civic rod — 
Shall such things be, righteous God, 
In Baltimore ? 



No, never ! By that outrage black, 

A solemn oath we swore, 
To bring the Keystone's thousands 

back, 
Strike down the dastards who attack, 
And leave a red and fiery track 

Through Baltimore ! 



Bow down, in haste, thy guilty head ! 

God's wrath is swift and sore : 
The sky with gathering bolts is red, — 
Cleanse from thy skirts the slaughter 

shed, 
Or make thyself an ashen bed, 

Baltimore 1 



TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE 

That late, in half-despair, I said : 
" The Nation's ancient life is dead ; 
Her arm is weak, her blood is cold ; 
She hugs the peace that gives her gold, - 



138 



SINCE 1861. 



The shameful peace, that sees expire 
Each beacon-light of patriot fire, 
And makes her court a traitors' den," — 
Forgive me this, my countrymen ! 

Oh, in your long forbearance grand, 
Slow to suspect the treason planned, 
Enduring wrong, yet hoping good 
For sake of olden brotherhood, 
How grander, how sublimer far 
At the roused Eagle's call ye are, 
Leaping from slumber to the fight, 
For Freedom and for Chartered Right ! 

Throughout the land there goes a cry ; 
A sudden splendor fills the sky : 
From every hill the banners burst, 
Like buds by April breezes nurst ; 
In every hamlet, home, and mart, 
The fire-beat of a single heart 
Keeps time to strains whose pulses mix 
Our blood with that of Seventy-Six ! 

The shot whereby the old flag fell 
From Sumter's battered citadel 
Struck down the lines of party creed 
And made ye One in soul and deed, — 
One mighty People, stern and strong 
To crush the consummated wrong ; 
Indignant with the wrath whose rod 
Smites as the awful sword of God ! 

The "cup is full! They thought ye 

blind : 
The props of state they undermined ; 
Abused your trust, your strength de- 
fied, 
And stained the Nation's name of pride. 
Now lift to Heaven your loyal brows, 
Swear once again your fathers' vows, 
And cut through traitor hearts a track 
-To nobler fame and freedom back ! 

Draw forth your million blades as one ; 
Complete the battle then begun ! 
God fights with ye, and overhead 
Floats the dear banner of your dead. 
They, and the glories of the Past, 
The Future, dawning dim and vast, 
And all the holiest hopes of Man, 
Are beaming triumph in your van ! 

Slow to resolve, be swift to do ! 

Teach ye the False how fight the True ! 

How bucklered Perfidy shall feel 

In her black heart the Patriot's steel ; 

How sure the bolt that Justice wings ; 

How weak the arm a traitor brings ; 



How mighty they, who steadfast stand 
For Freedom's Flag and Freedom's 
Land ! 
April 30, 1861. 



SCOTT AND THE VETERAN. 



An old and crippled veteran to the Wat 

Department came ; 
He sought the Chief who led him on 

many a field of fame, — 
The Chief who shouted " Forward ! " 

where'er his banner rose, 
And bore its stars in triumph behind 

the flying foes. 



" Have you forgotten, General," the bat- 
tered soldier cried, 

" The days of Eighteen Hundred Twelve, 
when I was at your side ? 

Have you forgotten Johnson, that fought 
at Lundy's Lane ? 

'T is true, I 'm old and pensioned, but 1 
want to fight again." 

in. 

" Have I forgotten ? " said the Chief ; 

" my brave old soldier, No ! 
And here 's the hand I gave you then, 

and let it tell you so : 
But you have done your share, my friend ; 

you 're crippled, old, and gray, 
And we have need of younger arms and 

fresher blood to-day." 



" But, General," cried the veteran, a 

flush upon his brow, 
" The very men who fought with us, 

they say, are traitors now ; 
They 've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane, 

— our old red, white, and blue ; 
And while a drop of blood is left, I '11 

show that drop is true. 



v. 

" I 'm not so weak but I can strike, and 

I 've a good old gun 
To get the range of traitors' heart3, and 

pick them, one by one. 



MARCH. 



139 



four Minte rifles, and such arms, it 
aVt worth while to try : 

i could n't get the hang o' them, but I '11 
keep my powder dry ! " 



■* God bless you, comrade ! " said the 

Chief ; " God bless your loyal 

heart ! 
But younger men are in the field, and 

claim to have their part : 
They '11 plant our sacred banner in each 

rebellious town, 
And woe, henceforth, to any hand that 

dares to pull it down ! " 



" But, General," — still persisting, the 

weeping veteran cried, 
" I 'm young enough to follow, so long 

as you 're my guide ; 
And some, you know, must bite the dust, 

and that, at least, can 1, — 
So, give the young ones place to fight, 

but me a place to die ! 



" If they should fire on Pickens, let the 
Colonel in command 

Put me upon the rampart, with the flag- 
staff in my hand : 

No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or 
how the shells may fly ; 

I '11 hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and 
hold them till I die 1 



" I 'm ready, General, so you let a post 

to me be given, 
Where Washington can see me, as he 

looks from highest heaven, 
And say to Putnam at his side, or, may 

be, General Wayne; 
There stands old Billy Johnson, that 

fought at Lundy's Lane ! ' 



x. 

Ki And when the fight is hottest, before 

the traitors fly, 
When shell and ball are screeching and 

bursting in the sky, 
If any shot should hit me, and lay me 

on my face, 



My soul would go to Washington's, and 
not to Arnold's place ! 
May, 1861. 



MARCH. 

With rushing winds and gloomy skies 
The dark and stubborn Winter dies : 
Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries, 
Bidding her earliest child arise : 

March 

By streams still held in icy snare, 
On southern hillsides, melting bare, 
O'er fields that motley colors wear, 
That summons fills the changeful air : 

March 

What though conflicting seasons make 
Thy days their field, they woo or shake 
The sleeping lids of Life awake, 
And hope is stronger for thy sake, 

March ! 

Then from thy mountains, ribbed with 

snow, 
Once more thy rousing bugle blow, 
And East and West, and to and fro, 
Announce thy coming to the foe, 

March 

Say to the picket, chilled and numb ; 
Say to the camp's impatient hum ; 
Say to the trumpet and the drum : 
" Lift up your hearts, I come ! I come ! " 

March 

Cry to the waiting hosts that stray 
On sandy seasides, far away, 
By marshy isle and gleaming bay, 
Where Southern March is Northern 
May: 

March ! 

Announce thyself with welcome noise, 
Where Glory 's victor-eagles poise 
Above the proud, heroic boys 
Of Iowa and Illinois : 

March 

Then down the long Potomac's line 
Shout like a storm on hills of pine, 
Till ramrods ring and bayonets shine . 
" Advance ! The Chieftain's call u 
mine, — 

March ! ■ 
March 1, 1862. 



140 



SINCE 1861. 



A THOUSAND YEARS. 

[Novgorod, Russia, Sept. 20, 1862.] 

A thousand years ! Through storm 
and fire, 
With varying fate, the work has 
grown, 
Till Alexander crowns the spire, 
Where Rurik laid the corner-stone. 

The chieftain's sword, that could not 
rust, 

But bright in constant battle grew, 
Raised to the world a throne august, — 

A nation grander than he knew. 

Nor he, alone ; but those who have, 
Through faith or deed' an equal part : 

The subtle brain of Yaroslav, 

Vladimir's arm and Nikon's heart : 

The later hands, that built so well 
The work sublime which these began, 

And up from base to pinnacle 
Wrought out the Empire's mighty 
plan. 

All these, to-day, are crowned anew, 
And rule in splendor where they trod, 

While Russia's children throng to view 
Her holy cradle, Novgorod. 

From Volga's banks ; from Dwina's 
side ; 
From pine-clad Ural, dark and long ; 
Or where the foaming Terek's tide 
Leaps down from Kasbek, bright with 
song: 

From Altai's chain of mountain-cones ; 

Mongolian deserts, far and free ; 
And lands that bind, through changing 
zones, 

The Eastern and the Western sea ! 

To every race she gives a home, 

And creeds and laws enjoy her shade, 

Till, far beyond the dreams of Rome, 
Her Caesar's mandate is obeyed. 

She blends the virtues they impart, 
And holds, within her life combined, 

The patient faith of Asia's heart, — 
The force of Europe's restless mind. 

She bids the nomad's wanderings cease ■ 
She binds the wild marauder fast ■ 



Her ploughshares turn to homes of 

peace 
The battle-fields of ages past. 

And, nobler yet, she dares to know 
Her future's task, nor knows in vain ; 

But strikes at once the generous blow 
That makes her millions men again I 

So, firmer-based, her power expands, 
Nor yet has seen its crowning hour, — 

Still teaching to the struggling lands 
That Peace the offspring is of Powr r 

Build, then, the storied bronze, to tell 
The steps whereby this height she 
trod, — 

The thousand years that chronicle 
The toil of Man, the help of God ! 

And may the thousand years to come, — 
The future ages, wise and free, - 

Still see her flag, and hear her drum 
Across the world, from sea to sea ! — 

Still find, a symbol stern and grand, 
Her ancient eagle's wings unshorn : 

One head to watch the Western land, 
And one to guard the land of morn ! 



A DAY IN MARCH. 

Look forth, Beloved, from thy mansion 
high, 

By soft airs fanned, 
And see the summer from her bluest sky 

Surprise the land ! 

See how the bare hills bask in purple 
bliss 

Along the south : 
On the brown death of winter falls a kis* 

From summer's mouth ! 

From pines that weave, among the 
ravished trees, 

Their phantom bowers, 
A murmur comes, as sought the ghostr 
of bees 

The ghosts of flowers. 

Though yet no blood may swell the wil 
low rind, 

No grass-blade start, 
A dream of blossoms fills the yea~aing 
wind, 

Of love, my heart. 



THE TEST. 



141 



Look forth, Beloved, through the tender 
air, 

And let thine eyes 
Tho violets be, it finds not anywhere, 
And scentless dies. 

[jook, and thy trembling locks of plen- 
teous gold 

The day shall see, 
And search no more where first, on yon- 
der wold, 

The cowslips be. 

Look, and the wandering summer not 
forlorn 

Shall turn aside, 
Content to leave her million flowers un- 
born, 

Her songs untried. 

Drowsy with life and not with sleep or 
death 

I dream of '4iee : 
Breathe forth thy being in one answer- 
ing breath, 

And come to me ! 

Come forth, Beloved ! Love's exultant 
sign 

Is in the sky : 
And let me lay my panting heart to 
thine 

And die ! 



THE TEST. 

" Farewell awhile, my bonnie dar- 
ling! 

One long, close kiss, and I depart : 
I hear the angry trumpet snarling, 

The drum-beat tingles at my heart." 

Behind him, softest flutes were breath- 
ing, 

Across the vale their sweet recall ; ' 
Before him burst the battle, seething 

In flame beneath its thunder-pall. 

Ml sights and sounds to stay invited ; 

The meadows tossed their foam of 
flowers ; 
The lingering Day beheld, delighted, 

The dances of his amorous Hours. 

He paused : again the foul temptation 
Assailed his heart, so firm before, 



And tender dreams, of Love's crea 
tion, 
Persuaded from the peaceful shore. 

"But no!" he sternly cried; "I fol 
low 

The trumpet, not the shepherd's reed 
Let idlers pipe in pastoral hollow, — 
Be mine the sword, and mine the deed I 

" Farewell to Love ! " he murmured 
sighing : 
"Perchance I lose what most is dear ■ 
But better there, struck down and dy- 
ing, 
Than be a man and wanton here ! " 

He went where battle's voice was loud- 
est ; 
He pressed where danger nearest 
came ; 
His hand advanced, among the proud- 
est, 
Their banner through the lines of 
flame. 

And there, when wearied Carnage fal- 
tered 
He, foremost of the fallen, lay, 
While Night looked down with brow un- 
altered, 
And breathed the battle's dust away. 

There lying, sore from wounds untended, 
A vision crossed the starry gleam : 

The girl he loved beside him bended, 
And kissed him in his fever-dream. 

" love ! " she cried, " you fled, to find 
me; 
I left with you the daisied vale ; 
I turned from flutes that wailed behind 
me, 
To hear your trumpet's distant hail. 

" Your tender vows, your peaceful kisses, 
They scarce outlived the moment's 
breath ; 
But now we clasp immortal blisses 
' Of Passion proved on brinks of Death ! 

"No fate henceforward shall estrange 
her 
Who finds a heart more brave than 
fond ; 
For Love, forsook this side of dan 
ger, 
Waits for the man who goes beyond 1 * 



142 



SINCE 1861. 



THE NEVA. 

I walk, as in a dream, 
Beside the sweeping stream, 
Wrapped in the summer midnight's 
amber haze : 
Serene the temples stand, 
And sleep, on either hand, 
The palace-lronts along the granite 
quays. 

Where golden domes, remote, 

Above the sea-mist float, 
The river-arms, dividing, hurry forth ; 

And Peter's fortress-spire, 

A slender lance of fire, 
Still sparkles back the splendor of the 
North. 

The pillared angel soars 
Above the silent shores ; 
Dark from his rock the horseman hangs 
in air ; 
And down the watery line 
The exiled Sphinxes pine 
For Karnak's morning in the mellow 
glare. 

I hear, amid the hush, 
The restless current's rush, 
The Neva murmuring through his crys- 
- tal zone : 

A voice portentous, deep, 
To charm a monarch's sleep 
With dreams of power resistless as his 
own. 

Strong from the stormy Lake, 
Pure from the springs that break 

In Valdai vales the forest's mossy floor, 
Greener than beryl-stone 
Prom fir-woods vast and lone, 

In one full stream the braided currents 
pour. 

" Build up your granite piles 
Around my trembling isles," 
I hear the River's scornful Genius 
say: 
" Eaise for eternal time 
Your palaces sublime, 
And flash your golden turrets in the 
day ! 

" But in my waters cold 
A mystery I hold, — 
01 empires and of dynasties the fate : 



I bend my haughty will, 
Unchanged, unconquered still, 
And smile to note your triumph : mine 
can wait. 

" Your fetters I allow, 
As a strong man may bow 
His sportive neck to meet a child's com- 
mand, 
And curb the conscious power 
That in one awful hour 
Could whelm your halls and templei 
where they stand. 

" When infant Rurik first 
His Norseland mother nursed, 
My willing flood the future chieftain 
bore : 
To Alexander's fame 
I lent my ancient name, 
What time my waves ran red with Pa- 
gan gore. 

" Then Peter came. I laughed 
To feel his little craft 
Borne on my bosom round the marshy 
isles : 
His daring dream to aid, 
My chafing floods I laid, 
And saw my shores transfixed with ar- 
rowy piles. 

" I wait the far-off day 
When other dreams shall sway 
The House of Empire builded by my 
side, — 
Dreams that already soar 
Prom yonder palace-door, 
And cast their wavering colors on my 
tide, — 

" Dreams where white temples rise 
Below the purple skies, 
By waters blue, which winter ncvei 
frets, — 
Where trees of dusky green 
Prom terraced gardens lean, 
And shoot on high the reedy min- 
arets. 

" Shadows of mountain-peaks 
Vex my unshadowed creeks ; 
Dark woods o'erhang my silvery birchen 
bowers ; 
And islands, bald and high, 
Break my clear round of sky, 
And ghostly odors blow from distant 
flowers. 



A STORY FOR A CHILD. 



143 



" Then, ere the cold winds chase 
These visions from iny face, 

I see the starry phantom of a crown, 
Beside whose blazing gold 
This cheating pomp is cold, 

A moment hover, as the veil drops down. 

" Build on ! That day shall see 
My streams forever free. 
Swift as the wind, and silent as the 
snow, 
The frost shall split each wall : 
Your domes shall crack and fall : 
My holts of ice shall strike your barriers 
low ! " 

On palace, temple, spire, 
The morn's descending fire 

In thousand sparkles o'er the city fell : 
Life's rising murmur drowned 
The Neva where he wound 

Between his isles : he keeps his secret 
well. 



A STORY FOR A CHILD. 

i. 

Little one, come to my knee ! 

Hark how the rain is pouring 
Over the roof, in the pitch-black night, 

And the wind in the woods a-roar- 
ing! 



Hush, my darling, and listen, 
Then pay for the story with kisses : 

Father was lost in the pitch-black night, 
In just such a storm as this is ! 



High up on the lonely mountains, 
Where the wild men watched and 
waited ; 
ATolves in the forest, and bears in the 
bush, 
And I on my path belated. 



The rain and the night together 

Came down, and the wind came after. 

Bending the props of the pine-tree roof 
And snapping many a rafter. 



I crept along in the darkness, 

Stunned, and bruised, and blinded — • 
Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs, 

And a sheltering rock behind it. 



There, from the blowing and raining 
Crouching, I sought to hide me : 

Something rustled, two green eyes 
shone, 
And a wolf lay down beside me. 



Little one, be not frightened ; 

I and the wolf together, 
Side by side, through the long, 
night, 

Hid from the awful weather. 



long 



His wet fur pressed against me ; 

Each of us warmed the other : 
Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, 

That beast and man was brother. 



And when the falling forest 
No longer crashed in warning, 

Each of us went from our hiding-place 
Forth in the wild, wet morning. 



Darling, kiss me payment ! 

Hark how the wind is roaring : 
Father's house is a better place 

When the stormy rain is pouring ! 



HOME PASTORALS. 



AD AMICOS. 

MOUNT CUBA, OCTOBER 10, 1874 

Sometimes an hour of Fate's serenest weather 

Strikes through our changeful sky its coming beami ; 

Somewhere above us, in elusive ether, 
Waits the fulfilment of our dearest dreams. 

So, when the wayward time and gift have blended, 
When hope beholds relinquished visions won, 

The heavens are broken and a blue more splendid 
Holds in its bosom an enchanted sun. 

Then words unguessed, in faith's own shyness guarded, 
To ears unused their welcome music bear : 

Then hands help on that doubtingly retarded, 
And love is liberal as the Summer air. 

The thorny chaplet of a slow probation 
Becomes the laurel Fate so long denied ; 

The form achieved smiles on the aspiration, 
And dream is deed and Art is justified ! 

Ah, nevermore the dull neglect, that smothers 
The bard's dependent being, shall return ; 

Forgotten lines are on the lips of others, 
Extinguished thoughts in other spirits burn ! 

Still hoarded lives what seemed so spent and wasted, 
And echoes come from dark or empty years ; 

Here brims the golden cup, no more untasted, 
But fame is dim through mists of grateful tears. 

I sang but as the living spirit taught me, 

Beat towards the light, perchance with wayward wing 
And still must answer, for the cheer you 've brought me : 

I sang because I could not choose but sing. 

From that wide air, whose greedy silence swallows 
So many voices, even as mine seemed lost, 

I hear you speak, and sudden glory follows, 
As from a falling tongue of Pentecost. 

So heard and hailed by you, that, standing nearest, 
Blend love with faith in one far-shining flame, 

I hold anew the earliest gift and dearest, — 
The happy Song that cares not for its fame ! 

B. T. 



HOME PASTOEALS 



PROEM. 



Now, when the mocking-bird, returned from his Florida winter, 

Sings where the sprays of the elm first touch the plumes of the cyprose , 

When on the southern porch the stars of the jessamine sparkle 

Faint in the dusk of leaves ; and the thirsty ear of the Poet 

Calls for the cup of song himself must mix ere it gladden, — 

Careful vintager first, though latest guest at the banquet, — 

Where shall he turn ? What foreign Muse invites to her vineyard 1 

Out of what bloom of the Past the wine of remoter romances ? 

Foxy our grapes, of earthy tang and a wildwood astringence 

Unto fastidious tongues ; but later, it may be, their juices, 

Mellowed by time, shall grow to be sweet on the palates of others. 

So will I paint in my verse the forms of the life I am born to, 

Not mediaeval, or ancient ! For whatso hath palpable colors, 

Drawn from being and blood, nor thrown by the spectrum of Fancy, 

Charms in the Future even as truth of the Past in the Present. 



Not for this, nor for nearer voices of intimate counsel, — 

When were ever they heeded ? — but since I am sated with visions, 

Sated with all the siren Past and its rhythmical phantoms, 

Here will I seek my songs in the quiet fields of my boyhood, 

Here, where the peaceful tent of home is pitched for a season. 

High is the house and sunny the lawn : the capes of the woodlands, 

Bluff, and buttressed with many boughs, are gates to the distance 

Blue with hill over hill, that sink as the pausing of music. 

Here the hawthorn blossoms, the breeze is blithe in the orchards. 

Winds from the Chesapeake dull the sharper edge of the winters, 

Letting the cypress live, and the mounded box, and the holly ; 

Here the chestnuts fall and the cheeks of peaches are crimson, 

Ivy clings to the wall and sheltered fattens the fig-tree. 

North and South are as one in the blended growth of the region, 

One in the temper of man, and ancient, inherited habits. 

in. 

Yet, though fair as the loveliest landscapes of pastoral England, 

Who hath touched them with song ? and whence my music, and whither 1 



148 HOME PASTORALS. 

Life still bears the stamp of its early struggle and labor, 
Still is shorn of its color by pious Quaker repression, 
Still is turbid with calm, or only swift in the shallows. 
Gone are the olden cheer, the tavern-dance and the fox-hunt, 
Muster at trainings, buxom lasses that rode upon pillions, 
Husking-parties and jovial home-comings after the wedding, 
Gone, as they never had been ! — and now, the serious people 
Solemnly gather to hear some wordy itinerant speaker 
Talking of Temperance, Peace, or the Eight of Suffrage for Women 
Sport, that once like a boy was equally awkward and restless, 
Sits with thumb in his mouth, while a petulant ethical bantling 
Struts with his rod, and threatens our careless natural joyance. 
Weary am I with all this preaching the force of example, 
Painful duty to self, and painf uller still to one's neighbor, 
Moral shibboleths, dinned in one's ears with slavering unction, 
Till, for the sake of a change, profanity loses its terrors. 



Clearly, if song is here to be found, I must seek it within me : 
Song, the darling spirit that ever asserted her freedom, 
Soaring on sunlit wing above the clash of opinions, 
Poised at the height of Good with a sweeter and lovelier instinct ! 
Call thee I will not, my life's one dear and beautiful Angel, 
Wayward, faithful and fond ; but, like the Friends in the Meeting, 
Waiting, will so dispose my soul in the pastoral stillness, 
That, denied to Desire, Obedience yet may invite thee ! 



MAY-TIME. 



Yes, it is May ! though not that the young leaf pushes its velvet 

Out of the sheath, that the stubbornest sprays are beginning to bourgeon, 

Larks responding aloft to the mellow flute of the bluebird, 

Nor that song and sunshine and odors of life are immingled 

Even as wines in a cup ; but that May, with her delicate philtres 

Drenches the veins and the valves of the heart, — a double possession, 

Touching the sleepy sense with sweet, irresistible languor, 

Piercing, in turn, the languor with flame : as the spirit, requickened 

Stirred in the womb of the world, foreboding a birth and a being ! 



Who can hide from her magic, break her insensible thraldom, 
Clothing the wings of eager delight as with plumage of trouble ? 
Sweeter, perchance, the embryo Spring, forerunner of April, 
When on banks that slope to the south the saxifrage wakens, 
When, beside the dentils of frost that cornice the road-side, 
Weeds are a promise, and woods betray the trailing arbutus. 
Once is the sudden miracle seen, the truth and its rapture 
Felt, and the pulse of the possible May is throbbing already. 
Thus unto me, a boy, the clod that was warm in the sunshine, 
Murmurs of thaw, and imagined hurry of growth in the herbage, 
Airs from over the southern hills, — and something within me 
Catching a deeper sign from these than ever the senses, — 
Came as a call : I awoke, and heard, and endeavored to answer. 



MAY-TIME. 149 

Whence should fall in my lap the sweet, impossible marvel ? 
When would the silver fay appear from the willowy thicket ? 
When from the yielding rock the gnome with his basket of jewels ! 
" When, ah when ? " I cried, on the steepest perch of the hillside 
Standing with arms outspread, and waiting a wind that should bear me 
Over the apple-tree tops and over the farms of the valley. 

in. 

He, that will, let him backward set the stream of his fancy, 
So to evoke a dream from the ruined world of his boyhood ! 
Lo, it is easy ! Yonder, lapped in the folds of the uplands, 
Bickers the brook, to warmer hollows southerly creeping, 
Where the veronica's eyes are blue, the buttercup brightens, 
Where the anemones blush, the coils of fern are unrolling 
Hour by hour, and over them nutter the sprinkles of shadow. 
There shall I lie and dangle my naked feet in the water, 
Watching the sleeping buds as one after one they awaken, 
Seeking a lesson in each, a brookside primrose of Wordsworth ? — 
Lie in the lap of May, as a babe that loveth the cradle, 
I, whom her eye inspires, whom the breath of her passion arouses ? 
Say, shall I stray with bended head to look for her posies, 
When with other wings than the coveted lift of the breezes 
Far I am borne, at her call : and the pearly abysses are parted 
Under my flight : the glimmering edge of the planet, receding, 
Rounds to the splendider sun and ripens to glory of color. 
Veering at will, I view from a crest of the jungled Antilles 
Sparkling, limitless billows of greenness, falling and flowing 
Into fringes of palm and the foam of the blossoming coffee, — 
Cratered isles in the offing, milky blurs of the coral 
Keys, and vast, beyond, the purple arc of the ocean : 
Or, in the fanning furnace-winds of the tenantless Pampas, 
Hear the great leaves clash, the shiver and hiss of the reed-beda 
Thus for the crowded fulness of life I leave its beginnings, 
Not content to feel the sting of an exquisite promise 
Ever renewed and accepted, and ever freshly forgotten. 

IV. 

Wherefore, now, recall the pictures of memory 1 Wherefore 

Yearn for a fairer seat of life than this I have chosen ? 

Ah, while my quiver of wandering years was yet unexhausted, 

Treading the lands, a truant that wasted the gifts of his freedom, 

Sweet was the sight of a home — or tent, or cottage, or castle, — 

Sweet unto pain ; and never beheld I a Highlander's shieling, 

Never a Flemish hut by a lazy canal and its pollards, 

Never the snowy gleam of a porch through Apennine orchards, 

Never a nest of lif e on the hoary hills of Judaea, 

Dropped on the steppes of the Don, or hidden in valleys of Norway 

But, with the fond and foolish trick of a heart that was homeless, 

Each was mine, as I passed : I entered in and possessed it, 

Looked, in fancy, forth, and adjusted my life to the landscape. 

Easy it seemed, to shift the habit of blood as a mantle, 

Fable a Past, and lightly take the form of the Future, 

So that a rest were won, a hold for the filaments, floating 

Loose in the winds of Life. Here, now, behold it accomplished 1 

Nay, but the restless Fate, the certain Nemesis follows, 

As to the bird the voice that bids him prepare for his passage, 



150 HOME PASTORALS. 

Saying : " Not this is the whole, not these, nor any, the borders 
Set for thy being ; this measured, slow repetition of Nature, 
Painting, effacing, in turn, with hardly a variant outline, 
Cannot replace for thee the Earth's magnificent frescos ! 
Art thou content to inhabit a simple pastoral chamber, 
Leaving the endless halls of her grandeur and glory untrodden ! * 



Man, I answer, is more : I am glutted with physical beauty 

Born of the suns and rains and the plastic throes of the ages. 

Man is more ; but neither dwarfed like a tree of the Arctic 

Vales, nor clipped into shape as a yew in the gardens of princes. 

Give me to know him, here, where inherited laws and disguises 

Hide him at times from himself, — where his thought is chiefly collectirs, 

Where, with numberless others fettered like slaves in a coffle, 

Each insists he is free, inasmuch as his bondage is willing. 

Who hath rent from the babe the primitive rights of his nature ? 

Who hath fashioned his yoke 1 who patterned beforehand his manhood * 

Say, shall never a soul be moved to challenge its portion, 

Seek for a wider heritage lost, a new disenthraiment, 

Sending a root to be fed from the deep original sources, 

So that the fibres wax till they split the centuried granite ? 

Surely, starting alike at birth from the ignorant Adam, 

Every type of the race were here indistinctly repeated, 

Hinted in hopes and desires, and harmless divergence of habit, 

Save that the law of the common mind is invisibly written 

Even on our germs, and Life but warms into color the letters. 



Thence, it may be, accustomed to dwell in a moving horizon, 
Here, alas ! the steadfast circle of things is a weary 
Round of monotonous forms : I am haunted by livelier visions. 
Linking men and their homes, endowing both with the language, 
Sweeter than speech, the soul detects in a natural picture, 
I to my varying moods the fair remembrances summon, 
Glad that once and somewhere each was a perfect possession. 
Two will I paint, the forms of the double passion of May-time, — 
Rest and activity, indolent calm and the sweep of the senses. 
One, the soft green lap of a deep Dalecarlian valley, 
Sheltered by piny hills and the distant porphyry mountains ; 
Low and red the house, and the meadow spotted with cattle ; 
All things fair and clear in the light of the midsummer Sabbath, 
Touching, beyond the steel-blue lake and the twinkle of birch-trees, 
Houses that nestle like chicks around the motherly church-roof. 
There, I know, there is innocence, ancient duty and honor, 
Love that looks from the eye and truth that sits on the forehead, 
Pure, sweet blood of health, and the harmless freedom of nature, 
Witless of blame ; for the heart is safe in inviolate childhood. 
Dear is the scene, but it fades : I see, with a leap of the pulses, 
Tawny under the lidless sun the sand of the Desert, 
Fiery solemn hills, and the burning green of the date-trees 
Belting the Nile : the tramp of the curvetting stallions is muffled ; 
Brilliantly stamped on the blue are the white and scarlet of turbana 
Lances prick the sky with a starry glitter ; the fulness, 
Joy, and delight of life are sure of the day and the morrow, 
Certain the gifts of sense, and the simplest order suffices. 




Take, here, the path by the pines." Page 151 



AUGUST. 151 

Breathing again, as once, the perfect air of the Desert, 
Good it seems to escape from the endless menace of duty, 
There, where the will is free, and wilfully plays with its freedom, 
And the lack of will for the evil thing is a virtue. 



Man is more, I have said : but the subject mood is a fashion 
Wrought of his lighter mind and dyed with the hues of his 
Then to be truly more, to be verily free, to be master 
As beseems to the haughty soul that is lifted by knowledge 
Over the multitude's law, enforcing their own acquiescence, — 
Lifted to longing and will, in its satisfied loneliness centred, — 
This prohibits the cry of the nerves, the weak lamentation 
Shaming my song : for I know whence cometh its languishing burden 
Impotent all I have dreamed, — and the calmer vision assures me 
Such were barren, and vapid the taste of joy that is skin-deep. 
Better the nest than the wandering wing, the loving possession, 
Intimate, ever-renewed, than the circle of shallower changes. 



AUGUST. 



Dead is the air, and still ! the leaves of the locust and walnut 
Lazily hang from the boughs, inlaying their intricate outlines 
Rather on space than the sky, — on a tideless expansion of slumber. 
Faintly afar in the depths of the duskily withering grasses 
Katydids chirp, and 1 hear the monotonous rattle of crickets. 
Dead is the air, and ah ! the breath that was wont to refresh me 
Out of the volumes I love, the heartful, whispering pages, 
Dies on the type, and I see but wearisome characters only. 
Therefore be still, thou yearning voice from the garden in Jena, — 
Still, thou answering voice from the park-side cottage in Weimar, — 
Still, sentimental echo from chambers of office in Dresden, — 
Ye, and the feebler and farther voices that sound in the pauses ! 
Each and all to the shelves I return : for vain is your commerce 
Now, when the world and the brain are numb in the torpor of August. 



Over the tasselled corn, and fields of the twice-blossomed clover, 
Dimly the hills'recede in the reek of the colorless hazes : 
Dull and lustreless, now, the burnished green of the woodlands ; 
Leaves of blackberry briers are bronzed and besprinkled with copper ; 
Weeds in the unmown meadows are blossoming purple and yellow, 
Roughly entwined, a wreath for the tan and wrinkles of Summer. 
Where shall I turn ? What path attracts the indifferent footstep, 
Eager no more as in June, nor lifted with wings as in May-time ? 
Whitherward look for a goal, when buds have exhausted their promise 
Harvests are reaped, and grapes and berries are waiting for Autumn? 
Wander, my feet, as ye list ! I am careless, to-day, to direct you. 
Take, here, the path by the pines, the russet carpet of needles 
Stretching from wood to wood, and hidden from sight by the orchard ! 
Here, in the sedge of tb.3 slope, the centuary, pink as a sea-shell, 
Opens her stars all at once, and with finer than tropical spices 
Sweetens the season's drouth, the censer of fields that are sterilo. 



152 HOME PASTOKALS. 

Now, from the height of the grove, between the irregular tree-trunks, 
Over the falling fields and the meadowy curves of the valley, 
Glimmer the peaceful farms, the mossy roofs of the houses, 
Gables gray of the neighboring barns, and gleams of the highway 
Climbing the ridges beyond to dip in the dream of a forest. 

in. 

Ah, forsaking the shade, and slowly crushing the stubble, 

Parting the viscous roseate stems and the keen pennyroyal, 

Rises a different scene, suggestion of heat and of stillness, — 

Heat as intense and stillness as dumb, the immaculate ether's 

Hush when it vaults the waveless Mediterranean sea-floor ; 

Golden the hills of Cos, with pencilled cerulean shadows ; 

Phantoms of Carian shores that are painted and fade in the distance ; 

Patmos behind, and westward the flushed Ariadnean Naxos, — 

Once as I saw them sleeping, drugged by the poppy of Summer. 

There, indeed, was the air, as with floating stars of the thistle 

Filled with impalpable forms, regrets, possibilities, longings, 

Beauty that was and was not, and Life that was rhythmic and joyous, 

So that the sun-baked clay the peasant took for his wine-jars 

Brighter than gold I thought, and the red acidity nectar. 

Here, at my feet, the clay is clay and a nuisance the stubble, 

Flaring St. John's-wort, milk- weed, and coarse, unpoetical mullein; — 

Yet, were it not for the poets, say, is the asphodel fairer ? 

Were not the mullein as dear, had Theocritus sung it, or Bion 1 

Yea, but they did not ; and we, whose fancy's tenderest tendrils 

Shoot unsupported, and wither, for want of a Past we can cling to, 

We, so starved in the Present, so weary of singing the Future, — 

What is 't to us, if, haply, a score of centuries later, 

Milk-weed inspires Patagonian tourists, and mulleins are classic 1 



Idly balancing fortunes, feeling the spite of them, maybe, — 

For the little withheld outweighs the much that is given, -- 

Feeling the pang of the brain, the endless, unquenchable yearning 

Born of the knowledge of Beauty, not to be shared or imparted, 

Slowly I stray, and drop by degrees to the thickets of alder 

Fringing a couch of the stream, a basin of watery slumber. 

Broken, it seems ; for the splash and the drip and the bubbles betoV r» 

What ? — the bath of a nymph, the bashful strife of a Hylas 1 

Broad is the back, and bent from an un-Olympian stooping, 

Narrow the loins and firm, the white of the thighs and the shoulders 

Changing to reddest and toughest of tan at the knees and the elbows. 

Is it a faun ? He sees me, nor cares to hide in the thickets. 

Faun of the bog is he, a sylvan creature of Galway 

Come from the ditch below, to cleanse him of sweat and of muck-3tain . 

Willing to give me speech, as, naked, he stands in the shallows. 

Something of coarse, uncouth, barbaric, he leaves on the bank there ; 

Something of primitive human fairness cometh to clothe him. 

Were he not bent with the pick, but straightened from reaching the bunch&i 

Hung from the mulberry branches, — heard he the bacchanal cymbals, 

Took from the sun an even gold on the web of his muscles, 

Knew the bloom of his stunted bud of delight of the senses, — 

Then as faun or shepherd he might have been welcome in marble. 

Yea, but he is not; and I, requiring the beautiful balance, 

Vtusic of life in the body, and limbs too fair to 1 1 hidden. 



AUGUST. 153 

Find, indeed, some delicate colors and possible graces, — 
Moral hints of the man beneath rhe unsavory garments, — 
Find them, and sigh, lamenting rhe law reversed of the races 
Starting the world afresh on the basis unlovely of Labor. 



Was it a spite of fate that blew me hither, an exile, 
Still unweaned, and not to be weaned, from the milk I was born to ! 
Bitter the stranger's bread to the homesick, hungering palate ; 
Bitterer still to the soul the taste of the food that is foreign ! 
Yet must I take it, yet live, and somehow seem to be healthy, 
Lest my neighbors, perchance, be shocked by an uncomprehended 
Violent clamor for that which I crave and they cannot supply me, — 
Hunger unmeet for the times, anachronistical passions, — 
Beauty seeming distorted because the rule is distortion. 
Here is a tangle which, now, too idle am I to unravel, 
Snared, moreover, by bitter-sweet, moon-seed, and riotous fox-grape, 
Meshing the thickets : procul, procul, unpractical fancies ! 
Verily, thus bewildering myself in the maze of aesthetic, 
Solveless problems, the feet were wellnigh heedlessly fettered. 
Thoughtless, 't is true, I relinquished my books ; but crescit eundo 
Wisely was said, — for desperate vacancy prompted the ramble, 
Memories prolonged, and a phantom of logic urges it onward. 



Here are the fields again ! The soldierly maize in tassel 

Stands on review, and carries the scabbarded ears in its arm-pits. 

Rustling I part the ranks, — the close, engulfing battalions 

Shaking their plumes overhead, — and, wholly bewildered and heated, 

Gain the top of the ridge, where stands, colossal, the pin-oak. 

Yonder, a mile away, I see the roofs of the village, — 

See the crouching front of the meeting-house of the Quakers, 

Oddly conjoined with the whittled Presbyterian steeple. 

Right and left are the homes of the slow, conservative farmers, 

Loyal people and true, but, now that the battles are over, 

Zealous for Temperance, Peace, and the Right of Suffrage for Women 

Orderly, moral, are they, — at least, in the sense of suppression ; 

Given to preaching of rules, inflexible outlines of duty ; 

Seeing the sternness of life, but, alas ! overlooking its graces. 

Let roe be juster : the scattered seeds of the graces are planted 

Widely apart ; but the trumpet-vine on the porch is a token ; 

Yea, and awake and alive are the forces of love and affection, 

Plastic forces that work from the tenderer models of beauty. 

Who shall dare to speak of the possible 1 Who shall encounter 

Pity and wrath and reproach, recalling the record immortal 

Left by the races when Beauty was law and Joy was religion ? 

Who to the Duty in drab shall bring the garlanded Pleasure ? — 

Break with the chant of the gods, the gladsome timbrels of morning. 

Nasal, monotonous chorals, sung by the sad congregation ? 

Better it were to sleep with the owl, to house with the hornet, 

Than to conflict with the satisfied moral sense of the people. 

VII. 

Nay, but let me be just ; nor speak with the alien language 

Bom of my blood ; for, cradled among them, I know them and love tuera, 



154 HOME PASTORALS. 

Was it my fault, if a strain of the distant and dead generations 

Rose in my being, renewed, and made me other than these are ? 

Purer, perhaps, their habit of law than the freedom they shrink from ; 

So, restricted by will, a little indulgence is riot. 

They, content with the glow of a carefully tempered twilight, 

Measured pulses of joy, and colorless growth of the senses, 

Stand agbast at my dream of the sun, and the sound, and the splendor 

Mine it is, and remains, resenting the threat of suppression, 

Stubbornly shaping my life, and feeding with fragments its hunger. 

Drifted from Attican hills to stray on a Scythian level, 

So unto me it appears, — unto them a perversion and scandal. 



Lo ! in the vapors, the sun, colossal and crimson and beamless, 
Touches the woodland ; fingers of air prepare for the dew-fall. 
Life is fresher and sweeter, insensibly toning to softness 
Needs and desires that are but the broidered hem of its mantle, 
Not the texture of daily use ; and the soul of the landscape, 
Breathing of justified rest, of peace developed by patience, 
Lures me to feel the exquisite senses that come from denial, 
Sharper passion of Beauty never fulfilled in external 
Forms or conditions, but always a fugitive has-been or may-be. 
Bright and alive as a want, incarnate it dozes and fattens. 
Thus, in aspiring, I reach what were lost in the idle possession : 
Helped by the laws I resist, the forces that daily depress me ; 
Bearing in secreter joy a luminous life in my bosom, 
Fair as the stars on Cos, the moon on the boscage of Naxos ! 
Thus the skeleton Hours are clothed with rosier bodies : 
Thus the buried Bacchanals rise unto lustier dances : 
Thus the neglected god returns to his desolate temple : 
Beauty, thus rethroned, accepts and blesses her children ! 



NOVEMBER. 



Wrapped in his sad-colored cloak, the Day, like a Puritan, standeth 
Stern in the joyless fields, rebuking the lingering color, — 
Dying hectic of leaves and the chilly blue of the asters, — 
Hearing, perchance, the croak of a crow on the desolate tree-top, 
Breathing the reek of withered weeds, or the drifted and sodden 
Splendors of woodland, as whoso piously groan eth in spirit : 
Vanity, verily ; yea, it is vanity, let me forsake it ! 
Yea, let it fade, for Life is the empty clash of a cymbal, 
Joy a torch in the hands of a fool, and Beauty a pitfall ! " 



Once, I remember, when years had the long duration of ages, 
Came, with November, despair ; for summer had vanished forever. 
Lover of light, my boyish heart as a lover's was jealous, 
Followed forsaking suns and felt its passion rejected, 
Saw but Age and Death, in the whole wide circle of Nature 
Throned forever ; and hardly yet have I steadied by knowledge 
Faith that faltered and patience that was but a weary submission. 
Though to the right and left I hear the call of the huskers 



NOVEMBER. 155 

Scattered among the rustling shocks, and the cheerily whistled 
Lilt of an old plantation tune from an ebony teamster, 
These behold no more than the regular jog of a mill-wheel 
Where, unto me, there is possible end and diviner beginning. 
Silent are now the flute of Spring and the clarion of Summer 
As they had never been blown : the wail of a dull Miserere 
Heavily sweeps the woods, and, stifled, dies in the valleys. 

in. 

Who are they that prate of the sweet consolation of Nature 1 
They who fly from the city's heat for a month to the sea-shore, 
Drink of unsavory springs, or camp in the green Adirondacks ? 
They, long since/have left with their samples of ferns and of alga 
Memories carefully dried and somewhat lacking in color, 
Gossip of tree and cliff and wave and modest adventure, 
Such as a graceful sentiment — not too earnest — admits of, 
Heard in the pause of a dance or bridging the gaps of a dinner. 
Nay, but I, who know her, exult in her profligate seasons, 
Turn from the silence of men to her fancied, fond recognition, 
I am repelled at last by her sad and cynical humor. 
Kinder, cheerier now, were the pavements crowded with people, 
Walls that hide the sky, and the endless racket of business. 
There a hope in something lifts and enlivens the current, 
Face seeth face, and the hearts of a million, beating together, 
Hidden though each from other, at least are outwardly nearer, 
Lending the life of all to the one, — bestowing and taking, 
Weaving a common web of strength in the meshes of contact, 
Close, yet never impeded, restrained, yet delighting in freedom. 
There the soul, secluded in self, or touching its fellow 
Only with horny palms that hide the approach of the pulses, 
Driven abroad, discovers the secret signs of its kindred, 
Kisses on lips unknown, and words on the tongue of the stranger. 
Life is set to a statelier march, a grander accordance 
Follows its multitudinous steps of dance and of battle : 
Part hath each in the music ; even the sacredest whisper 
Findeth a soul unafraid and an ear that is ready to listen. 



Nature ? 'T is well to sing of the glassy Bandusian fountain, 
Shining Ortygian beaches, or flocks on the meadows of Enna, 
Linking the careless life with the careless mood of the Mother. 
We, afar and alone, confronted with heavier questions, 
Robbed of the oaten pipe before it is warm in our fingers. 
Why should we feign a faith 1 — why crown an indifferent goddesp ? 
Under the gray, monotonous vault what carolling song-bird 
Hopes for an echo 1 Closer and lower the vapors are folded ; 
Sighing shiver the woods, though drifted leaves are unrustled ; 
Ghosts of the grasses that fled with a breath and floated in sunshine 
Hang unstirred on brier and fence ; for a new desolation 
Comes with the rain, that, chilly and quietly creeping at nightfall, 
Thence for many a day shall dismally drizzle and darken. 



u See ! " (methinks I hear the mechanical routine repeated,) 

" Emblems of faith in the folded bud and the seed that is sleeping ! 



156 HOME PASTORALS. 

Knowledge, not Faith, deduced the similitude ; how shall an emblem 

Give to the soul the steadfast truth that alone satisfies it ? 

Joy of the Spring I can feel, but not the preaching of Autumn. 

Earth, if a lesson is wrought upon each of thy radiant pages, 

Give us the words that sustain us, and not the words that discourage ! 

Sceptic art thou become, the breeder of doubt and confusion, 

Powerless vassal of Fate, assuming a meek resignation, 

Yielding the forces that moved in thy life and made it triumphant ! 



Now, as my circle of home is slowly swallowed in darkness, 

As with the moan of winds the rain is drearily falling, — 

Hopes that drew as the sun and aims that stood as the pole-star 

Fading aloof from my life as though it never had known them, — 

Where, when the wont is deranged, shall I find a permanent foothold 1 

Stripped of the rags of Time I see the form of my being, 

Born of all that ever has been, and haughtily reaching 

Forward to all that comes, — yet certain, this moment, of nothing. 

Chide or condemn as ye may, the truant and mutinous spirit 

Turns on itself, and forces release from its holiest habit ; 

Soars where the suns are sprinkled in cold illimited darkness, 

Peoples the spheres with far diviner forms of existence, 

Questions, conjectures at will ; for Earth and its creeds are forgotten. 

Thousands of aeons it gathers, yet scarce its feet are supported ; 

Dumb is the universe unto the secrets of Whence ? and of Whither ? 

So, as a dove through the summits of ether falling exhausted, 

Under it yawns the blank of an infinite Something — or Nothing ! 

VII. 

Let me indulge in the doubt, for this is the token of freedom, 

This is all that is safe from hands that would fain intermeddle, 

Thrusting their worn phylacteries over the eyes that are seeking 

Truth as it shines in the sky, not truth as it smokes in their lantern. 

Ah, shall I venture alone beyond the limits they set us, 

Bearing the spark within till a breath of the Deity fan it 

Into an upward-pointing flame ? — and, forever unquiet, 

Nearer through error advance, and nearer through ignorant yearuing ? 

Yes, it must be : the soul from the soul cannot hide or diminish 

Aught of its essence : here the duplicate nature is ended : 

Here the illusions recede, at man's unassailable centre. 

And the nearness and farness of God are all that is left him. 



Lo ! as I muse, there come on the lonely darkness and silence 
Gleams like those of the sun that reach his uttermost planet, 
Inwardly dawning ; and faint and sweet as the voices of waters 
Borne from a sleeping mountain-vale on a breeze of the midnight, 
Falls a message of cheer : " Be calm, for to doubt is to seek whom 
None can escape, and the soul is dulled with an idle acceptance. 
Crying, questioning, stumbling in gloom, thy pathway ascendeth ; 
They with the folded hands at the last relapse into strangers. 
Over thy head, behold ! the wing with its measureless shadow 
Spread against the light, is the wing of the Angel of Unfaith, 
Chosen of God to shield the eyes of men from His glory. 
Thus through mellower twilights of doubt thou climbest undazzled. 



l'envoi. 157 

Mornward ever directed, and even in wandering guided. 

God is patient of souls that reach through an endless creation, 

So but His shadow be seen, but heard the trail of His mantle 1 " 



Who is alone in this ? The elder brothers, immortal, 

Leaned o'er the selfsame void and rose to the same consolation, 

Human therein as we, however diviner their message. 

Even as the liquid soul of summer, pent in the flagon, 

Waits in the darksome vault till we crave its odor and sunshine, 

So in the Past the words of life, the voices eternal. 

Freedom like theirs we claim, yet lovingly guard in the freedom 

Sympathies due to the time and help to the limited effort; 

Thus with double arms embracing our duplicate being, 

Setting a foot in either world, we stand as the Masters. 

Ah, but who can arise so far, except in his longing ? 

Give me thy hand ! — the soft and quickening life of thy pulses 

Spans the slackened spirit and lifts the eyelids of Fancy : 

Doubt is of loneliness born, belief companions the lover. 

Ever from thee, as once from youth's superfluous forces, 

Courage and hope are renewed, the endless future created. 

Out of the season's hollow the sunken sun shall be lifted, 

Bringing faith in his beams, the green resurrection of Easter, 

After the robes of death by the angels of air have been scattered, 

Climbing the heights of heaven, to stand supreme at his solstice I 



L'ENVOI. 



Mat-time and August, November, and over the winter to May-time, 

Year after year, or shaken by nearness of imminent battle, 

Or as remote from the stir as an isle of the sleepy Pacific, 

Here, at least, I have tasted peace in the pauses of labor, 

Eest as of sleep, the gradual growth of deliberate Nature. 

Here, escaped from the conflict of taste, the confusion of voices 

Heard in a land where the form of Art abides as a stranger, 

Come to me definite hopes and clearer possible duties, 

Faith in the steadfast service, content with tardy achievement. 

Here, in men, I have found the elements working as elsewhere, 

Ever betraying the surge and swell of invisible currents, 

Which, from beneath, from the deepest bases of thought in the people, 

Press, and heavy with change, and filled with wsions unspoken, 

Bear us onward to shape the formless face of the Future. 



Now, if the tree I planted for mine must shadow another's, 

If the uncounted tender memories, sown with the seasons, 

Filling the webs of ivy, the grove, the terrace of roses, 

Clothing the lawn with unwithering green, the orchard with blossoms, 

Singing a finer song to the exquisite motion of waters, 

Breathing profounder calm from the dark Dodonian oak-trees, 

Now must be lost, till, haply, the hearts of others renew them, — 

Yet we have had and enjoyed, we have and enjoy them forever. 

Drops from the bough the fruit that here was sunnily ripened : 



158 HOME PASTORALS. 

Other will grow as well on the westward slope of the garden. 
Sorrowing not, nor driven forth by the sword of an angel, 
Nay, bnt borne by a fnller tide as a ship from the harbor, 
Slowly out of our eyes the pastoral bliss of the landscape 
Fades, and is dim, and sinks below the rim of the ocean. 



Sorrowing not, I have said : with thee was the ceasing of sorrow. 
Hope from thy lips I have drawn, and subtler strength from thy spirit, 
Sharer of dream and of deed, inflexible conscience of Beauty ! 
Though as a Grace thou art dear, as a guardian Muse thou art earnest, 
Walking with purer feet the paths of song that I venture, 
Side by side, unwearied, in cheerful, encouraging silence. 
Not thy constant woman's heart alone I have wedded ; 
One are we made in patience and faith and high aspiration. 
Thus, at last, the light of the fortunate age is recovered : 
Thus, wherever we wander, the shrine and the oracle follow ! 



BALLADS. 



BALLADS. 



THE QUAKER WIDOW. 



Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah, — come in ! 'T is kind of thee 
To wait until the Eriends were gone, who came to comfort me. 
The still and qniet company a peace may give, indeed, 
But blessed is the single heart that comes to us at need. 



Come, sit thee down ! Here is the bench where Benjamin would sit 
On First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows flit : 
He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant bees 
Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple-trees. 



I think he loved the spring : not that he cared for flowers : most men 
Think such things foolishness, — but we were first acquainted then, 
One spring : the next he spoke his mind ; the third I was his wife, 
And in the spring (it happened so) our children entered life. 



He was but seventy-five : I did not think to lay him yet 
In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we met. 
The Father's mercy shows in this : 't is better I should be 
Picked out to bear the heavy cross — alone in age — than he. 



We 've lived together fifty years : it seems but one long day, 
One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was called away ; 
And as we bring from Meeting-time a sweet contentment home. 
80, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to come. 



I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know 
If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I should gv ; 
11 



162 BALLADS. 

For father had a deep concern upon his mind that day, 

But mother spoke for Benjamin, — she knew what best to say. 



Then she was still : they sat awhile : at last she spoke again, 
" The Lord incline thee to the right ! " and " Thou shalt have him, Jane ' 
My father said. I cried. Indeed, 't was not the least of shocks, 
For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Orthodox. 



I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Ruth we lost : 
Her husband 's of the world, and yet I could not see her crossed. 
She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hireling priest 
Ah, dear ! the cross was ours : her life 's a happy one, at least. 



Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when- she 's as old as I, — 
Would thee believe it, Hannah ? once / felt temptation nigh ! 
My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for my taste : 
I wanted lace around the neck, and a ribbon at the waist. 



How strange it seemed to sit with him upon the women's side ! 
I did not dare to lift my eyes : I felt more fear than pride, 
Till, " in the presence of the Lord," he said, and then there came 
A holy strength upon my heart, and I could say the same. 



T used to blush when he came near, but then I showed no sign ; 
With all the meeting looking on, I held his hand in mine. 
It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I was his for life : 
Thee knows the feeling, Hannah, — thee, too, hast been a wife. 



XII. 

As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so green as ours ; 
The woods were coming into leaf, the meadows full of flowers : 
The neighbors met us in the lane, and every face was kind, — 
'T is strange how lively everything comes back upon my mind. 



I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding-dinner spread : 

At our own table we were guests, with father at the head, 

And Dinah Passmore helped us both, — 't was she stood up with me. 

And Abner Jones with Benjamin, — and now they 're gone, all three 



XIV. 

It is not right to wish for death ; the Lord disposes best. 
His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them for His rest ; 
And that He halved our little flock was merciful, I see : 
For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two are left with me. 



THE HOLLY-TREE. 163 



xv. 



Eusebius never cared to farm, — 'twas not his call, in truth, 
And I must rent the dear old place, and go to daughter Ruth. 
Thee '11 say her ways are not like mine, — young people now-a-days 
Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the good old ways. 



XVI. 



But Ruth is still a Friend at heart ; she keeps the simple tongue, 
The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was young ; 
And it was brought upon my mind, remembering her, of late, 
That we on dress and outward things perhaps lay too much weight 



I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a spirit clothed with grace, 
And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a homely face. 
And dress may be of less account : the Lord will look within : 
The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or sin. 



Thee must n't be too hard on Ruth : she 's anxious I should go, 
And she will do her duty as a daughter should, I know. 
'T is hard to change so late in life, but we must be resigned : 
The Lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind. 



THE HOLLY-TREE. 

i. 

The corn was warm in the gi-ound, the fences were mended and made 
And the garden-beds, as smooth as a counterpane is laid, 
Were dotted and striped with green where the peas and radishee <£re* 
With elecampane at the foot, and comfrey, and sage, and rue. 

ii. 

The work was done on the farm, 't was orderly everywhere, 
And comfort smiled from the earth, and rest was felt in the air. 
When a Saturday afternoon at such a time comes round, 
The farmer's fancies grow, as grows the grain in his ground. 



*1 was so with Gabriel Parke : he stood by the holly-tree 
That came, in the time of Penn, with his fathers over the sea : 
A hundred and eighty years it had grown where it first was set, 
And the thorny leaves were thick and the trunk was sturdy yet. 



From the knoll where stood the house the fair fields pleasautly rolled 
To dells where the laurels hung, and meadows of butter-cup gold : 
He looked on them all by turns, with joy in his acres free, 
Hut ever his thoughts came back to the tale of the holly-tree. 



IG4 BALLADS. 



In beautiful Warwickshire, beside the Avon stream, 
John Parke, in his English home, had dreamed a singular dream 
He went with a sorrowful heart, for love of a bashful maid, 
And a vision came as he slept one day in a holly's shade. 



An angel sat in the boughs, and showed him a goodly land, 
With hills that fell to a brook, and forests on either hand, 
And said : " Thou shalt wed thy love, and this shall belong to you 
For the earth has ever a home for a tender heart and true ! " 



Even so it came to pass, as the angel promised then : 
He wedded and wandered forth with the earliest friends of Penn, 
And the home foreshown he found, with all that a home endears, — 
A nest of plenty and peace, for a hundred and eighty years ! 



In beautiful Warwickshire the life of the two began, — 
A slip of the tree of the dream, a far-off sire of the man ; 
And it seemed to Gabriel Parke, as the leaves above him stirred, 
That the secret dream of his heart the soul of the holly heard. 



Of Patience Phillips he thought : she, too, was a bashful maid : 
The blue of her eyes was hid by the eyelash's golden shade ; 
But well that she could not hide the cheeks that were fair to see 
As the pink of an apple-bud, ere the blossom snows the tree 1 



Ah ! how had the English Parke to the English girl betrayed, 
Save a dream had helped his heart, the love that makes afraid ? — 
That seemed to smother his voice, when his blood so sweetly ran, 
And the baby heart lay weak in the rugged breast of the man ? 



His glance came back from the hills and back from the laurel glen, 
And fell on the grass at his feet, where clucked a mother-hen, 
With a brood of tottering chicks, that followed as best they might ; 
Bat one was trodden and lame, and drooped in a woful plight. 



XII. 

He lifted up from the grass the feeble, cluttering thing, 
And warmed its breast at his lips, and smoothed its stumpy wing, 
When, lo ! at his side a voice : " Is it hurt ? " was all she said ; 
But the eyes of botk were shy, and the cheeks of both were red. 




The mother looked from the house." Page 165. 



THE HOLLY-TREK. 165 



She took from his hand the chick, and fondled and soothed it then, 
While, knowing that good was meant, cheerfully clacked the hen ; 
And the tongues of the two were loosed : there seemed a wonderful charm 
In talk of the hatching fowls and spring- work done on the farm. 



But Gabriel saw that her eyes were drawn to the holly-tree : 
" Have you heard," he said, " how it came with the family over tl i *es f 
He told the story again, though he knew she knew it well, 
And a spark of hope, as he spake, like fire in his bosom fell. 



" I dreamed a beautiful dream, here, under the tree, just now," 
He said ; and Patience felt the warmth of his eyes on her brow : 

" I dreamed, like the English Parke ; already the farm I own, 
But the rest of the dream is best — the land is little, alone." 



He paused, and looked at the maid : her flushing cheek was bent, 
And, under her chin, the chick was cheeping its warm content ; 
But naught she answered — then he : "0 Patience ! I thought of you ! 
Tell me you take the dream, and help me to make it true ! " 



The mother looked from the house, concealed by the window-pane, 
And she felt that the holly's spell had fallen upon the twain ; 
She guessed from Gabriel's face what the words he had spoken were, 
And blushed in the maiden's stead, as if they were spoken to her. 



She blushed, and she turned away, ere the trembling man and maid 
Silently hand in hand had kissed in the holly's shade, 
And Patience whispered at last, her sweet eyes dim with dew : 
" O Gabriel ! could you dream as much as I 've dreamed of you ? " 



The mother said to herself, as she sat in her straight old chair : 
; He 's got the pick of the flock, so tidy and kind and fair ! 
At first I shall find it hard, to sit and be still, and see 
How the house is kept to rights by somebody else than me. 

xx. 

But the home must be theirs alone : I '11 do by her, if I can, 

As Gabriel's grandmother did, when I as a wife began : 

So good and faithful he 's been, from the hour when [ gave him life, 

He shall master be in the house, and mistress shall bo his wife ! " 



166 BALLADS. 



JOHN REED. 

There 's a mist on the meadow below ; the herring-frogs chirp and cry 
It 's chill when the sun is down, and the sod is not yet dry : 
The world is a lonely place, it seems, and I don't know why. 

I see, as I lean on the fence, how wearily trudges Dan 

With the feel of the spring in his bones, like a weak and elderly man ; 

I 've had it a many a time, but we must work when we can. 

But day after day to toil, and ever from sun to sun, 
Though up to the season's front and nothing be left undone, 
Is ending at twelve like a clock, and beginning again at one. 

The frogs make a sorrowful noise, and yet it 's the time they mate ; 
There's something comes with the spring, a lightness or else a weight ; 
There 's something comes with the spring, and it seems to me it 's fate. 

It 's the hankering after a life that you never have learned to know ; 
It 's the discontent with a life that is always thus and so ; 
It 's the wondering what we are, and where we are going to go. 

My life is lucky enough, I fancy, to most men's eyes, 
For the more a family grows, the oftener some one dies, 
And it 's now run on so long, it could n't be otherwise. 

And Sister Jane and myself, we have learned to claim and yield ; 

She rules in the house at will, and I in the barn and field, 

So, nigh upon thirty years ! — as if written and signed and sealed. 

I could n't change if I would ; I 've lost the how and the when ; 
One day my time will be up, and Jane be the mistress then, 
For single women are tough, and live down the single men. 

She kept me so to herself, she was always the stronger hand, 

And my lot showed well enough, when I looked around in the land j 

But I 'm tired and sore at heart, and I don't quite understand. 

I wonder how it had been if I 'd taken what others need, 
The plague, they say, of a wife, the care of a younger breed 1 ? 
If Edith Pleasanton now were with me as Edith Reed ? 

Suppose that a son well grown were there in the place of Dan, 
And I felt myself in him, as I was when my work began ? 
I should feel "no older, sure, and certainly more a man ! 

A daughter, besides, in the house ; nay, let there be two or three ! 

We never can overdo the luck that can never be, 

And what has come to the most might also have come to me. 

I 've thought, when a neighbor's wife or his child was carried away, 
That to have no loss was a gain ; but now, — I can hardly say ; 
He seems to possess them still, under the ridges of clay. 

And share and share in a life is, somehow, a different thing 
From property held by deed, and the riches that oft take wing , 
I feel so close in the breast ! — I think it must be the spriug. 



JANE REED. 167 

I 'm drying up like a brook when the woods have been cleared around ; 
You 're sure it must always run, you are used to the sight and sound, 
But it shrinks till there 's only left a stony rut in the ground. 

There 's nothing to do but take the days as they come and go, 
And not to worry with thoughts that nobody likes to show, 
Foi oeople so seldom talk of the things they want to know. 

There 's times when the way is plain, and everything nearly right, 
And then, of a sudden, you stand like a man with a clouded sight : 
A bush seems often a beast, in the dusk of the falling night. 

1 must move ; my joints are stiff; the weather is breeding rain, 
And Dan is hurrying on with his plough-team up the lane. 
I '11 go to the village-store ; I 'd rather not talk with Jane. 



JANE KEED. 

" If I could forget," she said, " forget, and begin again ! 
We see so dull at the time, and, looking back, so plain : 
There 's a quiet that 's worse, I think, than many a spoken strife, 
And it 's wrong that one mistake should change the whole of a lift . 

" There 's John, forever the same, so steady, sober, and mild ; 
He never storms as a man who never cried as a child : 
Perhaps my ways are harsh, but if he would seem to care, 
There 'd be fewer swallowed words and a lighter load to bear. 

" Here, Cherry ! — she 's found me out, the calf I raised in the spring, 
And a likely heifer she 's grown, the foolish, soft-eyed thing ! 
Just the even color I like, without a dapple or speck, — 
O Cherry, bend down your head, and let me cry on your neck ! 

" The poor dumb beast she is, she never can know nor tell, 
And it seems to do me good, the very shame of the spell : 
So old a woman and hard, and Joel so old a man. — 
But the thoughts of the old go on as the thoughts of the young began ! 

" It *s guessing that wastes the heart, far worse than the surest fate : 
If I knew he had thought of me, I could quietly work and wait ; 
And then when either, at last, on a bed of death should lie, 
Why, one might speak the truth, and the other hear and die ! '• 

She leaned on the heifer's neck; the dry leaves fell from the boughs, 
And over the sweet late grass of the meadow strayed the cows : 
The golden dodder meshed the cardinal-flower by the rill ; 
There was autumn haze in the air, and sunlight low on the hill. 

'' I 've somehow missed my time," she said to herself and sighed : 
' What girls are free to hope, a steady woman must hide, 
But the need outstays the chance : it makes me cry and laugh, 
To think that the only thing I can talk to now is a calf ! " 

A step :ame down from the hill : she did not turn or rise ; 
There was something in her heart that saw without the eyes. 
She heard the fcot delay, as doubting to stay or go : 
4 Is the heifer for sale 1 " he said. She sternly answered, "No ! " 



L68 BALLADS. 

She lifted her head as she spoke : their eyes a moment met, 
And her heart repeated the words, " If 1 could only forget ! " 
He turned a little away, but her lowered eyes could see 
His hand, as it picked the bark from the trunk of a hickory-tree. 

" Why can't we be friendly, Jane 1 " his words came, strange and slow j 
" You seem to bear me a grudge, so long, and so long ago ! 
You were gay and free with the rest, but always so shy of me, 
That, before my freedom came, I saw that it could n't be." 

" Joel ! " was all she cried, as their glances met again, 
And a sudden rose effaced her pallor of age and pain. 
He picked at the hickory bark : " It 's a curious thing to say ; 
But I 'm lonely since Phcebe died and the girls are married away. 

" That 's why these thoughts come back : I 'm a little too old for pride, 
And I never could understand how love should be all one side : 
'T would answer itself, I thought, and time would show me how ; 
But it did n't come so, then, and it does n't seem so, now ! " 

" Joel, it came so, then ! " — and her voice was thick with tears : 
" A hope for a single day, and a bitter shame for years ! " 

He^napped the ribbon of bark ; he turned from the hickory-tree : 
" Jane, look me once in the face, and say that you thought of me ! " 

She looked, and feebly laughed : " It 's a comfort to know the truth, 
Though the chance was thrown away in the blind mistake of youth." 
" And a greater comfort, Jane," he said, with a tender smile, 
11 To find the chance you have lost, and keep it a little while." 

She rose as he spake the words : the petted heifer thrust 
Her muzzle between the twain, with an animal's strange mistrust : 
.But over the creature's neck he drew her to his breast : 
" A horse is never so old but it pulls with another best ! " 

" It 's enough to know," she said ; " to remember, not forget ! " 
" Nay, nay : for the rest of life we '11 pay each other's debt ! " 
She had no will to resist, so kindly was she drawn, 
And she sadly said, at last, " But what will become of John 1 " 



THE OLD PENNSYLVANIA FARMER. 



Well — well ! this is a comfort, now — the air is mild as May, 
And yet 't is March the twentieth, or twenty-first, to-day : 
And Reuben ploughs the hill for corn ; I thought it would be tough 
But now I see the furrows turned, I guess it 's dry enough. 



1 don't half live, penned up in doors ; a stove 's not like the sun. 
When I can't see how things go on, I fear they 're badly done : 
I might have farmed till now, I think — one 's family is so queer 
As if a man can't oversee who 's in his eightieth year ! 



THE OLD PENNSYLVANIA FARMER. 169 



Father, I mind, was eighty-five before he gave up his ; 
But he was dim o' sight, and crippled with the rheumatiz. 
I followed in the old, steady way, so he was satisfied ; 
But Reuben likes new-fangled things and ways I can't abide. 



I 'm glad I built this southern porch ; my chair seems easier lere : 
I have n't seen as fine a spring this five-and-twenty year ! 
And how the time goes round so quick ! — a week, I would have sworn, 
Since they were husking on the fiat, and now they plough for corn ! 



When I was young, time had for me a lazy ox's pace, 

But now it 's like a blooded horse, that means to win the race. 

And yet I can't fill out my days, I tire myself with naught ; 

I 'd rather use my legs and hands than plague my head with thought. 



There 's Marshall, too, I see from here : he and his boys begin. 

Why don't they take the lower field ? that one is poor and thin. 

A coat of lime it ought to have, but they 're a doless set : 

They think swamp-mud 's as good, but we shall see what corn they get ! 



Across the level, Brown's new place begins to make a show ; 
I thought he 'd have to wait for trees, but, bless me, how they grow ! 
They say it 's fine — two acres filled with evergreens and things ; 
But so much land ! it worries me, for not a cent it brings. 



He has the right, I don't deny, to please himself that way, 
But 't is a bad example set, and leads young folks astray : 
Book-learning gets the upper-hand and work is slow and slack, 
And they that come long after us will find things gone to wrack. 



IX. 

Now Reuben 's on the hither side, his team comes back again ; 
I know how deep he sets the share, I see the horses strain : 
I had that field so clean of stones, but he must plough so deep, 
He '11 have it like a turnpike soon, and scarcely fit for sheep. 



If father lived, I 'd like to know what he would say to these 

New notions of the younger men, who farm by chemistries : 

There 's different stock and other grass ; there 's patent plough and cart 

Five hundred dollars for a bull ! it would have broke his heart. 



170 BALLADS. 



XI. 



The maples must be putting out: I see a something red 
Down yonder where the clearing laps across the meadow's head. 
Swamp-cabbage grows beside the run ; the green is good to see, 
But wheat 's the color, after all, that cheers and 'livens me. 



They think I have an easy time, no need to worry now — 

Sit in the porch all day and watch them mow, and sow, and plough 

Sleep in the summer in the shade, in winter in the sun — 

I 'd rather do the thing myself, and know just how it 's done ! 



Well — I suppose I 'm old, and yet 't is not so long ago 
When Reuben spread the swath to dry, and Jesse learned to mow, 
And William raked, and Israel hoed, and Joseph pitched with me : 
But such a man as I was then my boys will never be ! 



I don't mind William's hankering for lectures and for books ; 
He never had a farming knack — you 'd see it in his looks ; 
But handsome is that handsome does, and he is well to do : 
; T would ease my mind if I could say the same of Jesse, too. 



There 's one black sheep in every flock, so there must be in mine, 
But I was wrong that second time his bond to undersign : 
It 's less than what his share will be — but there 's the interest ! 
In ten years more I might have had two thousand to invest. 



There 's no use thinking of it now, and yet it makes me sore ; 
The way I 've slaved and saved, I ought to count a little more. 
I never lost a foot of land, and that 's a comfort, sure, 
And if they do not call me rich, they cannot call me poor. 



Well, well ! ten thcasand times I 've thought the things I'm thinking no - ?* 
I 've thought them in the harvest-field and in the clover-mow ; 
And often I get tired of them, and wish I 'd something new — 
But this is all I 've had and known ; so what 's a man to do ? 



'T is like my time is nearly out, of that I 'm not afraid ; 

I never cheated any man, and all my debts are paid. 

They call it rest that we shall have, but work would do no harm ; 

There can't be rivers there and fields, without some sort o' farm I 



NAPOLEON AT GOTHA. 171 



NAPOLEON AT GOTHA. 



We walk amid the currents of actions left undone, 
The germs of deeds that wither, before they see the sun 
For every sentence uttered, a million more are dumb : 
Men's lives are chains of chances, and History their sun; 



Not he, the Syracusan, but each impurpled lord 
Must eat his banquet under the hair-suspended sword ; 
And one swift breath of silence may fix or change the fate 
Of him whose force is building the fabric of a state. 



Where o'er the windy uplands the slated turrets shine, 
Duke August ruled at Gotha, in Castle Friedenstein, — 
A handsome prince and courtly, of light and shallow heart, 
No better than he should be, but with a taste for Art. 



The fight was fought at Jena, eclipsed was Prussia's sun, 
And by the French invaders the land was overrun ; 
But while the German people were silent in despair, 
Duke August painted pictures, and curled his yellow hair. 



Now, when at Erfurt gathered the ruling royal clan, 
Themselves the humble subjects, their lord the Corsican, 
Each bade to ball and banquet the sparer of his line : 
Duke August with the others, to Castle Friedenstein. 



Then were the larders rummaged, the forest-stags were slain, 
The tuns of oldest vintage showered out their golden rain; 
The towers were bright with banners, — but all the people said : 
u We, slaves, must feed our master, — would God that he were dead ! " 



They drilled the ducal guardsmen, men young and straight and tall, 
To form a double column, from gate to castle-wall ; 
And as there were but fifty, the first must wheel away, 
Fall in beyond the others, and lengthen the array. 



" Parbleu! " Napoleon muttered: " Your Highness' guard? I prize, 
So young and strong and handsome, and all of equal size . " 

" You, Sire," replied Duke August, " may have as fine, if you 
Will twice cr thrice repeat them, as I am forced to do !" 



172 BALLADS. 



Now, in the Castle household, of all the folk, was one 
Whose heart was hot within him, the Ducal Huntsman's son ; 
A proud and bright-eyed stripling ; scarce fifteen years he had, 
But free of hall and chamber: Duke August loved the lad. 



He saw the forceful homage ; he heard the shouts that came 
From base throats, or unwilling, but equally of shame : 
He thought : " One man has done it, — one life would free the land, 
But all are slaves and cowards, and none will lift a hand ! 



My grandsire hugged a bear to death, when broke his hunting-spear, 
And has this little Frenchman a muzzle I should. fear 1 
If kings are cowed, and princes, and all the land is scared, 
Perhaps a boy can show them the thing they might have dared ! " 



Napoleon on the morrow was coming once again, 
(And all the castle knew it) without his courtly train ; 
And, when the stairs were mounted, there was no other road 
But one long, lonely passage, to where the Duke abode. 



None guessed the secret purpose the silent stripling kept : 
Deep in the night he waited, and, when his father slept, 
Took from the rack of weapons a musket old and tried, 
And cleaned the lock and barrel, and laid it at his side. 



XIV. 

He held it fast in slumber, he lifted it in dreams 

Of sunlit mountain-forests and stainless mountain-streams; 

And in the morn he loaded — the load was bullets three : 

For Deutschland — for Duke August — and now the third for me 



" What ! ever wilt be hunting *? " the stately Marshal cried ; 

*' I '11 fetch a stag of twenty ! " the pale-faced boy replied, 
As, clad in forest color, he sauntered through the court, 
And said, when none could hear him : " Now, may the time be short ! ' 



The corridor was vacant, the windows full of sun ; 

He stole within the midmost, and primed afresh his gun ; 

Then stood, with all his senses alert in ear and eye 

Tc catch the lightest signal that showed the Emperor nigh. 



THE ACCOLADE. 



178 



A sound of wheels : a silence : the muffled sudden jar 
Of guards their arms presenting : a footstep mounting far 
Then nearer, briskly nearer, — a footstep, and alone ! 
And at the farther portal appeared Napoleon ! 



Alone, his hands behind him, his firm and massive head 
"With brooded plans uplifted, he came with measured tread : 
And jet, those feet had shaken the nations from their poise, 
And yet, that will to shake them depended on the boy's ! 



With finger on the trigger, the gun held hunter-wise, 
His rapid heart-beats sending the blood to brain and eyes, 
The boy stood, firm and deadly, — another moment's space, 
And then the Emperor saw him. and halted, face to face. 



A mouth as cut in marble, an eye that pierced and stung 
As might a pod's, all-seeing, the soul of one so young : 
A look that read his secret, that lamed his callow will, 
That inly smiled, and dared him his purpose to fulfil ! 



As one a serpent trances, the boy, forgetting all, 

Felt but that face, nor noted the harmless musket's fall ; 

Nor breathed, nor thought, nor trembled ; but, pale and cold as stcne 

Saw pass, nor look behind him, the calm Napoleon. 



And these two kept their secret ; but from that day began 
The sense of fate and duty that made the boy a man ; 
And long he lived to tell it, — and, better, lived to say : 
1 God's purposes were grander : He thrust me from His way i 



THE ACCOLADE. 



Dnder the lamp in the tavern yard 

The beggars and thieves were met 
Ruins of lives that were evil-starred, 
Battered bodies and faces hard, 
A loveless and lawless set. 



The cans were full, if the serip was 
lean ; 
A fiddler played to the crowd 



The high-pitched lilt of a tune obscene 
When there entered the gate, it ^ai 
ments mean, 
A stranger tall and proud. 



There was danger in their doubting 
eyes; 
" Now who are you ? " they said. 
" One who has been more wild than 

wise, 
Who has played with force and fed 01 
lies, 
As you on your mouldy bread. 



174 



BALLADS. 



IV. 

" The false have come to me, high and 
low, 
Where I only sought the true : 
I am sick of sham and sated with 

show ; 
The honest evil I fain would know, 
In the license here with you." 



v. 



In 



" He shall go ! " " He shall stay 
hot debate 
Their whims and humors ran, 
When Jack o' the Strong Arm square 

and straight 
Stood up, like a man whose word is 
fate, 
A reckless and resolute man. 



" Why brawl," said he, "at so slight a 
thing ? 
Are fifty afraid of one ? 
We have taken a stranger into our 

ring 
Ere this, and made him in sport our 
king; 
So let it to-nio-ht be done ! 



" Fetch him a crown of tinsel bright, 

For sceptre a tough oak-staff ; 
And who most serves to the King's de- 
light, 
The King shall dub him his own true 
knight, 
And I swear the King shall laugh ! " 



They brought him a monstrous tinsel 
crown, 
They put the staff in his hand ; 
There was wrestling and racing up and 

down, 
There was song of singer and jest of 
clown, 
There was strength and sleight-of- 
hand. 



The King, he pledged them with clink 
of can, 

He laughed with a royal glee ; 



There was dull mistru-t when the sports 
began, 

There was roaring mirth when the rear- 
most man 
Gave out, and the ring was free. 



For Jack o' the Strong Arm strove with 
a will, 
With the wit and the strength ol 
four ; 
There was never a part he dared not 

fill, 
Wrestler, and singer, and clown, until 
The motley struggle was o'er. 



And ever he turned from the deft sur 
prise, 
And ever from strain or thrust, 
With a dumb appeal in his laughing 

guise, 
And gazed on the King with wistful 
eyes, 
Panting, and rough with dust. 



" Kneel, Jack o' the Strong Arm ! Oar 
delight 
Hath most been due to thee," 
Said the King, and stretched his rapier 

bright : 
" Rise, Sir John Armstrong, our true 
knight, 
Bold, fortunate, and free ! " 



Jack o' the Strong Arm knelt and 
bowed, 
To meet the christening blade ; 
He heard the shouts of the careless 

crowd, 
And murmured something, as though he 
vowed, 
When he felt the accolade. 



He kissed the King's hand tenderly, 

Full slowly then did rise, 
And within him a passion seemed to be 
For his choking throat they all could 
see, 

And the strange tears in his eye*. 



ERIC AND AXEL. 



175 



From his massive breast the rags he 
threw, 
He threw them from body and limb, 
Till, bare as a new-born babe to view, 
He faced them, no longer the man they 
knew: 
They silently stared at him. 



" O KLag ! " he said, " thou wert King, 
I knew ; 
I am verily knight, King ! 
What thou hast done thou canst not 

undo ; 
Thou hast come to the false and found 
the true 
In the carelessly ventured thing. 



K As I cast away these rags I have worn, 

The life that was in them I cast ; 
Take me, naked and newly born, 
Test me with power and pride and 
scorn, 
I shall be true to the last ! " 



His large, clear eyes were weak as he 
spoke, 
But his mouth was firm and strong; 
And a cry from the thieves and beggars 

broke, 
As the King took off his own wide cloak 
And covered him from the throng. 



He gave him his royal hand in their 
sight, 
And he said, before the ring : 
* Come with me, Sir John ! Be leal 

and right ; 
If I have made thee all of a knight, 
Thou hast made me more of a 
king ! " 

ERIC AND AXEL. 

i. 

Though they never divided my meat or 

wine, 
fet Eric and Axel are friends of mine; 



Never shared my sorrow, nor laughed 

with my glee, 
Yet Eric and Axel are dear to me ; 
And faithfuller comrades no man ever 

knew 
Than Eric and Axel, the fearless, the 

true ! 



When I hit the target, the} 7 feel no pride ; 
When I spin with the waltzeis, they 

wait outside ; 
When the holly of Yule-tide hangs in 

the hall, 
And kisses are freest, thev care not at 

all; 
When I sing, they are silent; I speak, 

they obey, 
Eric and Axel, my hope and my stay ! 



They wait for my coming ; they know 

I shall come, 
When the dancers are faint and the fid 

dlers numb, 
With a shout of " Ho, Eric I" and 

" Axel, ho ! " 
As we skim the wastes of the Norrland 

snow, 
And their frozen breath to a silvery 

gray 
Turns Eric's raven and Axel's bay. 



By the bondehus and the herregoari, 

O'er the glassy pavement of frith and 
fiord, 

Through the tall fir-woods, that like 
steel are drawn 

On the broadening red of the rising 
dawn, 

Till one low roof, where the hills un- 
fold, 

Shelters us all from the angry cold. 



I tell them the secret none else shall 

hear ; 
I love her, Eric, I love my dear S 
I love her, Axel; wilt love her, too, 
Though her eyes are dark and mine are 

blue ? 
She has eyes like yours, so dark aud 

clear : 
Eric and Axel will love my dear ! 



176 



BALLADS. 



They would speak if they could; but I 

think they know 
Where, when the moon is thin, they 

shall go, 
To wait awhile in the sleeping- street, 
To hasten away upon snow-shod feet, — 
Away and away, ere the morning star 
Touches the tops of the spires of Cal- 



Per, the merchant, may lay at her feet 
His Malaga wine and his raisins sweet, 
Brought in his ships from Portugal land, 
And T am as bare as the palm of my 
hand : 



But she sighs for me, and she sighs foi 
Lric and Axel, my comrades true ! 



You care not, Eric, for gold and wine ; 
You care not, Axel, for show and 

shine ; 
But you care for the touch of the hand 

that 's dear, 
And the voice that fondles you through 

the ear, 
And you shall save us, through storm 

and snow, 
When she calls: "Ho, Eric'" and 

" Axel, ho ! " 



LYRICS. 



LTEIOS. 



THE BURDEN OF THE DAY. 



Who shall rise and cast away, 
First, the Burden of the Day ? 
Who assert his place, and teach 
Lighter labor, nobler speech, 
Standing firm, erect, and strong, 
Proud as Freedom, free as Song 



Lo ! we groan beneath the weight 
Our own weaknesses create ; 
Crook the knee and shut the lip, 
All for tamer fellowship ; 
Load our slack, compliant clay 
With the Burden of the Day ! 



Higher paths there are to tread ; 
Fresher fields around us spread ; 
Other flames of sun and star 
Flash at hand and lure afar ; 
Larger manhood might we share, 
Surer fortune, — did we dare ! 



In our mills of common thought 
By the pattern all is wrought : 
In our school of life, the man 
Drills to suit the public plan, 
And through labor, love, and play, 
Shifts the Burden of the Day. 



v. 

Ah, the gods of wood and stone 
Can a single saint dethrone, 



But the people who shall aid 
'Gainst the puppets they have made 
First they teach and then obey : 
'T is the Burden of the Day. 



Thunder shall we never hear 
In this ordered atmosphere? 
Never this monotony feel 
Shattered by a trumpet's peal ? 
Never airs that burst and blow 
From eternal summits, know 1 



Though no man resent his wrong, 
Still is free the poet's song : 
Still, a stag, his thought may leap 
O'er the herded swine and sheep, 
And in pastures far away 
Lose the Burden of the Day ! 



IN THE LISTS. 

Could I choose the age and fortunate 
season 
When to be born, 
I would fly from the censure of your 
barren reason, 
And the scourges of your scorn : 
Could I take the tongue, and the land, 
and the station 
That to me were fit, 
I would make my life a force and an 
exultation, 
And you could not stifle it ! 

But the thing most near to the freedom 
I covet 
Is the freedom I wrest 



180 



LYRICS. 



From a time that would bar me from 
climbing above it, 
To seek the East in tbe West. 
I have dreamed of the forms of a nobler 
existence 
Than you give me here, 
And the beauty that lies afar in the 
dateless distance 
I would conquer, and bring more 
near. 

Et is good, undowered with the bounty 
of Fortune, 
In the sun to stand : 
Let others excuse, and cringe, and im 
portune, 
I will try the strength of my hand ! 
If I fail, I shall fall not among the mis- 
taken, 
Whom you dare deride : 
If I win, you shall hear, and see, and at 
last awaken 
To thank me because I defied ! 



THE SUNSHINE OF THE GODS. 



Who shall sunder the fetters, 
Who scale the invisible ramparts 
Whereon our nimblest forces 
Hurl their vigor in vain ? 
Where, like the baffling crystal 
To a wildered bird of the heavens, 
Something holds and imprisons 
The eager, the stirring brain ? 



Alas, from the fresh emotion, 
From thought that is born of feeling, 
From form, self -shaped, and slowly 
Its own completeness evolving, 
To the rhythmic speech, how long ! 
What hand shall master the tumult 
Where one on the other tramples, 
And none escapes a wrong 1 
Where the crowding germs of a thou- 
sand 
Fancies encumber the portal, 
Till one plucks a voice from the murmurs 
And lifts himself into Song ! 

in. 

As a man that walks in the mist, 
4.8 one that gropes for the Dooming 



Through lengthening chambers of twi 
light, 

The souls of the poems wander 

Restless, and dumb, and lost, 

Till the Word, like a beam of morn- 
ing, 

Shivers the pregnant silence, 

And the light of speech descends 

Like a tongue of the Pentecost ! 



Ah, moment not to be purchased, 
Not to be won by prayers, 
Not by toil to be conquered, 
But given, lest one despair, 
By the Gods in wayward kindness, 
Stay — thou art all" too fair ! 
Hour of the dancing measures, 
Sylph of the dew and rainbow, 
Let us clutch thy shining hair ! 



v. 

For the mist is blown from the mind, 
For the impotent yearning is over, 
And the wings of the thoughts have 

power : 
In the warmth and the glow creati\e 
Existence mellows and ripens, 
And a crowd of swift surprises 
Sweetens the fortunate hour ; 
Till a shudder of rapture loosens 
The tears that hang on the eyelids 
Like a breeze-suspended shower, 
With a sense of heavenly freshness 
Blown from beyond the sunshine, 
And the blood, like the sap of the 

roses, 
Breaks into bud and flower. 



VI. 

'T is the Sunshine of the Gods, 
The sudden light that quickens, 
Unites the nimble forces, 
And yokes the shy expression 
To the thoughts that waited long, — 
Waiting and wooing vainly : 
But now they meet like lovers 
In the time of willing increase, 
Each warming each, and giving 
The kiss that maketh strong : 
And the mind feels fairest May -time 
In the marriage of its passions, 
For Thought is one with Speech, 
In the Sunshine of the Gods, 
And Speech is one with Somj ! 



NOTUS IGNOTO. 



131 



Then a rhythmic pulse makes order 

In the troops of wandering fancies : 

Held in soft subordination, 

Lo ! they follow, lead, or fly. 

The fields of their feet are endless, 

And the heights and the deeps are open 

To the glance of the equal sky : 

And the Masters sit no longer 

In inaccessible distance, 

But give to the haughtiest question, 

Smiling, a sweet reply. 



Dost mourn, because the moment 
Is a gift beyond thy will, — 
A gift thy dreams had promised, 
Yet they gave to Chance its keeping 
And fettered thy free achievement 
With the hopes they not fulfil 1 
Dost sigh o'er the fleeting rapture, 
The bliss of reconcilement 
Of powers that work apart, 
Yet lean on each other still ? 



Be glad, for this is the token, 

The sign and the seal of the Poet : 

Were it held by will or endeavor, 

There were naught so precious in Song. 

Wait : for the shadows unlif ted 

To a million that crave the sunshine, 

Shall be lifted for thee erelong. 

Light from the loftier regions 

Here unattainable ever, — 

Bath of brightness and beauty, — 

Let it make thee glad and strong ! 

Not to clamor or fury, 

Not to lament or yearning, 

But to faith and patience cometh 

The Sunshine of the Gods, 

The hour of perfect Song ! 



NOTUS IGNOTO. 



Do you sigh for the power you dream 

of, 
The fair, evasive secret, 
The rare imagined passion, 
Friend unknown ! 
Do you haunt Egyptian portals, 
Where, within, the laboring goddess 



Yields to the hands of her chosen 
The sacred child, alone 1 



Ah, pause ! There is consolation 

For you, and pride : 

Free of choice and worship, 

Spared the pang and effort, 

Nor partial made by triumph, 

The poet's limitations 

You lightly set aside : 

Revived, in your fresher spirit 

The buds of my thought may blossom 

And the clew, from weary fingers 

Fallen, become your guide ! 

The taker, even as the giver, 

The user as the maker, 

Soil as seed, and rain as sunshine, 

Alike are glorified ! 



Loss with gain is balanced ; 

You may reach, when I but beckon ; 

You may drink, though mine the vin 

tage, 
You complete what I begun. 
When at the temple-door I falter, 
You advance to the altar ; 
I but rise to the daybreak, 
You to the sun ! 
My goal is your beginning : 
My steeps of aspiration 
For you are won ! 



Hark ! the nightingale is chanting 
As if her mate but knew ; 
Yet the dream within me 
Which the bird-voice wakens, 
Takes from her unconscious 
Prompting, form and hue : 
So the song I sing you, 
Voice alone of my being, 
Song for the mate and the nestling 
Finer and sweeter meaning 
May possess for you ! 
Lifting to starry summits, 
Filling with infinite passion, 
While the witless singer broodeth 
In the darkness and the dew ! 



Carved on the rock as an arrow 
To point your path, am I : 



182 



LYRICS. 



A cloud that tells, in the heavens, 

Which way the breezes fly : 

A brook that is born in the meadows, 

And wanders at will, nor guesses 

Whither its waters hie : 

A child that scatters blossoms, 

Thoughtless of memoried odors, 

Or sweet surprises of color, 

That waken when you go by : 

A bee-bird of the woodland, 

That finds the honeyed hollows 

Of ancient oaks, for others, — 

Even as these, am I ! 



Accept, and enjoy, and follow, — 

Conquer wherein I yield ! 

Make yours the bright conclusion, 

From me concealed ! 

Truth, to whom will possess it, 

Beauty to whom embraces, 

Song and its inmost secret, 

Life and its unheard music, 

To whom will hear and know them, 

Are ever revealed ! 



IN MY VINEYARD. 



At last the dream that clad the field 

Is- fairest fact, and stable ; 
At last my vines a covert yield, 

A patch for song and fable. 
I thread the rustling ranks, that hide 

Their misty violet treasure, 
And part the sprays with more than 
pride, 

And more than owner's pleasure. 



The tender shoots, the fragrance fine, 

Betray the garden's poet, 
Whose daintiest life is turned to wine, 

Yet half is shy to show it, — 
The epicure, who yields to toil 

A scarce fulfilled reliance, 
But takes from sun and dew and soil 

A grace unguessed by science. 



Faint odors, from the bunches blown, 
Surround me and subdue me ; 

The vincvard-breath of many a zone 
Is softlj breathing through me : 



From slopes of Eshkol, in the sun, 
And many a hillside classic : 

From where Falernian juices run, 
And where they press the Massic ! 



Where airy terraces, on high, 

The hungry vats replenish, 
And, less from earth than from th* 
sky, 

Distil the golden Rhenish : 
Where, light of heart, the Bordelais 

Compels his stony level 
To burst and foam in purple spray, — 

The rose that crowns the revel ! 



So here, as there, the subject earth 

Shall take a tenderer duty ; 
And Labor walk with harmless Mirth, 

And wed with loving Beauty : 
So, here, a gracious life shall fix 

Its seat, in sunnier weather ; 
For sap and blood so sweetly mix, 

And richly run together ! 



The vine was exiled from the land 

That bore but needful burdens ; 
But now we slack the weary hand, 

And look for gentler guerdons : 
We take from Ease a grace above 

The strength we took from Labor, 
And win to laugh, and woo to love, 

Each grimly-earnest neighbor. 



What idle dreams ! Even as I muse, 

I feel a falling shadow ; 
And vapors blur and clouds confuse 

My coming Eldorado. 
Portentous, grim, a ghost draws nigh, 

To clip my flying fancy, 
And change the shows of earth and skj 

With evil necromancy. 



The leaves on every vine-branch curl 
As if a frost had stung them ; 

The bunches shrivel, snap, and whirl 
As if a tempest flung them ; 

And as the ghost his forehead shakes, 
Denying and commanding, 



THE TWO HOMES. 



183 



But withered stalks and barren stakes 
Surround me where I 'm standing. 



" Beware ! " the spectre cried ; " the woe 

Of this delusive culture ! 
The nightingale that lures thee so 

Shall hatch a ravening vulture. 
To feed the vat, to fill the bin, 

Thou pluck'st the vineyard's foison, 
That drugs the cup of mirth with sin, 

The veins of health with poison ! " 



But now a golden mist was born, 

With violet odors mingled : 
I felt a brightness, as of morn, 

And all my pulses tingled ; 
And forms arose, — among them first 

The old Ionian lion, 
And they, Sicilian Muses nursed, — 

Theocritus and Bion. 

XI. 

And he of Teos, he of Rome, 

The Sabine bard and urban ; 
And Saadi, from his Persian home, 

And Hafiz in his turban : 
And Shakespeare, silent, sweet, and 
grave, 

And Herrick with his lawns on ; 
And Luther, mellow, burly, brave, 

Along with Rare Ben Jonson ! 



' Be comforted ! " they seemed to say : 

" For Nature does no treasons 
She neither gives nor takes away 

Without eternal reasons. 
She heaps the stores of corn and oil 

In such a liberal measure, 
That, past the utmost need of Toil, 

There 's something left for Pleasure. 



" The secret soul of sun and dew 

Not vainly she distilleth, 
And from these globes of pink and blue 

A harmless cup she filleth : 
Who loveth her may take delight 

In what for him she dresses, 
Nur find iu cheerful appetite 

The portal to excesses. 



" Yes, ever since the race began 

To press the vineyard's juices, 
It was the brute within the man 

Defiled their nobler uses ; 
But they who take from order joy, 

And make denial duty, 
Provoke the brute they should destroy 

By Freedom and by Beauty ! " 



They spake ; and lo ! the baleful shape 

Grew dim, and then retreated ; 
And bending o'er the hoarded grape, 

The vines my vision greeted. 
The sunshine burst, the breezes turned 

The leaves till they were hoary, 
And over all the vineyard burned 

A fresher light of glory ! 



THE TWO HOMES. 



My home was seated high and fair, 

Upon a mountain's side ; 
The day was longest, brightest there , 

Beneath, the world was wide. 
Across its blue, embracing zone 
The rivers gleamed, the cities shone, 
And over the edge of the fading rim 
I saw the storms in the distance dim, 

And the flash of the soundless thunder 



But weary grew the sharp, cold wine 
Of winds that never kissed, 

The changeless green of fir and pine, 
The gray and clinging mist. 

Above the granite sprang no bowers ; 

The soil gave low and scentless flowers 

And the drone and din of the watet 
fall 

Became a challenge, a taunting call : 
" 'T is fair, 't is fair in the valley ! " 



Of all the homesteads deep and far 

My fancy clung to one, 
Whose gable burned, a mellow star, 

Touched by the sinking sun. 
Unseen around, but not unguessed 
The orchards made a leafy nest ■ 



184 



LYRICS. 



The tur£ before it was thick, I knew, 
And bees were busy the garden through, 
And the windows were dark with roses. 



" 'T is happier there, below," I sighed : 

The world is warm and near, 
And closer love and comfort hide, 

That cannot reach me here. 
Who there abides must be so blest 
He '11 share with me his sheltered nest, 
If down to the valley I should go, 
Leaving the granite, the pines and snow, 
And the winds that are keen as lances." 



v. 

I wandered down, by ridge and dell ; 

The way was rough and long : 
Though earlier shadows round me fell, 

I cheered them with my song. 
The world's great circle narrower grew, 
Till hedge and thicket hid the blue ; 
But over the orchards, near at hand, 
The gable shone on the quiet land, 

And far away waa the mountain ! 



VI. 

Then came the master: mournful-eyed 

And stern of brow was he. 
" Oh,_ planted in such peace ! " I cried, 

" Spare but the least to me ! " 
"' Who seeks," he said, " this brooding 

haze, 
The tameness of these weary days ? 
The highway's dust, the glimmer and 

heat, 
The woods that fetter the young wind's 
feet, 
And hide the world and its beauty ? " 



He stretched his hand ; he looked afar 

With eyes of old desire : 
1 saw my home, a mellow star 

That held the sunset's fire. 
'But yonder home," he cried, "how 

fair! 
Its chambers burn like gilded air ; 
I know that the gardens are wild as 

dreams, 
With the sweep of winds, the dash of 
streams, 
And the pines that sound as an an- 
them ! 



" So quiet, so serenely high 

It sits, when clouds are furled, 
And knows the beauty of the sky, 

The glory of the world ! 
Who there abides must be so blest 
He '11 share with me that lofty crest, 
If up to the mountain I should go, 
Leaving the dust and the glare below 
And the weary life of the valley ! " 



IRIS. 



I am born from the womb of the cloud 

And the strength of the ardent sun, 
When the winds have ceased to be loud 

And the rivers of rain to run. 
Then light, on my sevenfold arch, 

I swing in the silence of air, 
While the vapors beneath me march 

And leave the sweet earth bare. 



For a moment, I hover and gleam 

On the skirts of the sinking storm; 
And I die in the bliss of the beam 

That gave me being and form. 
I fade, as in human hearts 

The rapture that mocks the will : 
I pass, as a dream departs 

That cannot itself fulfil ! 



Beyond the bridge I have spanned 

The fields of the Poet unfold, 
And the riches of Fairyland 

At my bases of misty gold. 
I keep the wealth of the spheres 

Which the high Gods never have wod 
And I coin, from their airy tears, 

The diadem of the sun ! 



For some have stolen the grace 

That is hidden in rest or strife • 
And some have copied the fac« 

Or echoed the voice of Life ; 
And some have woven of sound 

A chain of the sweetest control 
And some have fabled or found 

The key to the human soui : 



PENN CALVIN. 



185 



tJut I, from the blank of th° air 

And the white of the barren beam, 
Have wrought the colors that flare 

In the forms of a painter's dream. 
I gather the souls of the flowers, 

And the sparks of the gems, to me ; 
Till pale are the blossoming bowers, 

And dim the chameleon sea ! 



By the soul's bright sun, the eve, 

I am thrown on the artist's brain ; 
He follows me, and I fly ; 

He pauses, I stand again. 
O'er the reach of the painted world 

My chorded colors I hold, 
On a canvas of cloud impearled 

Drawn with a brush of gold ! 

VII. 

If I lure, as a mocking sprite, 

I give, as a goddess bestows, 
The red, with its soul of might, 

And the 'blue, with its cool repose ; 
The yellow that beckons and beams, 

And the gentler children they bear ; 
For the portal of Art's high dreams 

Is builded of L?ght and Air ! 



IMPLOKA PACE. 

The clouds that stoop from yonder sky 
Discharge their burdens, and are 
free ; 

The streams that take them hasten by, . 
To find relief in lake and sea. 

The wildest wind in vales afar 

Sleeps, pillowed on its ruffled wings ; 

And song, through many a stormy bar, 
Beats into silence on the strings ! 

And love o'ercomes his young unrest, 
And first ambition's flight is o'er ; 

And doubt is cradled on the breast 
Of perfect faith, and speaks no more. 

Our dreams and passions cease to 
dare, 

And homely patience learns her part ; 
fet still some keen, pursuing care 

Forbids consent to brain and heart. 



The gift unreached, beyond the haad ; 

The fault in all of beauty won ; 
The mildew of the harvest land, 

The spots upon the risen sun ! 

And still some cheaper service claims 
The will that leaps to loftier call : 

Some cloud is cast on splendid aims, 
On power achieved some common 
thrall. 

To spoil each beckoning victory, 

A thousand pygmy hands are thrust ; 

And, round each height attained, we see 
Our ether dim with lower dust. 1 

Ah, could we breathe some peaceful air, j 
And all save purpose there forget, 

Till eager courage learn to bear 

The gadfly's sting, the pebble's fret ! 

4et higher goal and harsher way, 
To test our virtue, then combine ! 

'T is not for idle ease we pray, 
But freedom for our task divine. 



PENN CALYIN. 



Search high and low, search up and 
down, 

By light of stars or sun, 
And of all the good folks of our town 

There 's like Penn Calvin none. 
He lightly laughs when all condemn, 

He smiles when others pray ; 
And what is sorest truth to them 

To him is idle play. 



" Penn Calvin, lift, as duty bids, 

The load we all must bear ! " 
He only lifts his languid lids, 

And says : " The morn is fair ! " 
" Learn while you may ! for Life is stern, 

And Art, alas ! is long." 
He hums and answers : " Yes, I learn 

The cadence of a song." 



" The world is dark with human woe, 
Man eats of bitter food." 

" The world," he says, "is all aglow 
With beauty, bliss, and goodl" 



186 



LYRICS. 



* To crush the senses you must strive, 
The beast of flesh destroy ! " 

" God gave this body, all alive, 
And every sense is joy ! " 



* Nay, these be heathen words we hear 

The faith they teach is flown, — 
A. mist that clings to temples drear 

And altars overthrown." 
" I reck not how nor whence it came," 

He answers ; " I possess : 
If heathens felt and owned the same, 

How bright was heathenesse ! " 



w Though you be stubborn to believe, 

Yet learn to grasp and hold : 
There 's power and honor to achieve, 

And royal rule of gold ! " 
Penn Calvin plucked an open rose 

And carolled to the sky : 
w Shine, sun of Day, until its close, — 

They live, and so do I ! " 



His eyes are clear as they were kissed 

By some unrisen dawn ; 
Our grave and stern philanthropist 

Looks sad, and passes on, 
Our pastor scowls, the pious flock 

Avert their heads, and flee ; 
For pestilence or earthquake shock 

Less dreadful seems than he. 



But all the children round him cling, 

Depraved as they were born ; 
And vicious men his praises sing, 

Whom he forgets to scorn. 
Penn Calvin's strange indifference gives 

Our folks a grievous care : 
He 's simply glad because he lives, 

And glad the world is fair ! 

SUMMEK NIGHT. 

VARIATIONS ON CERTAIN MELODIES. 

I. 

ANDANTE. 

Under the full-blown linden and the 
plane, 
That link their arms above 



In mute, mysterious love, 
I hear the strain ! 
Is it the far postilion's horn, 
Mellowed by starlight, floating up tr 



Or song of love-sick peasant, borne 
Across the fields of fragrant corn, 
And poplar-guarded alley 1 
Now from the woodbine and the uusoen 
rose 
What new delight is showered ? 
The warm wings of the air 
Drop into downy indolence and dose. 

So sweetly overpowered : 
But nothing sleeps, though rest seems 
everywhere. 



II. 



Something came with the falling dusk, 
Came, and quickened to soft un- 
rest : 
Something floats in the linden's musk, 
And throbs in the brook on the 
meadow's breast. 
Shy Spirit of Love, awake, awake ! 
All things feel thee, 
And all reveal thee 
The night was given for thy sweet 
sake. 
Toil slinks aside, and leaves to thee the 

laud ; 
The heart beats warmer for the idle 
hand ; 
The timid tongue unlearns its 
wrong, 

And speech is turned to song ; 
The shaded eyes are braver ; 
And every life, like flowers whose scent 
is dumb 

Till dew and darkness come, 
Gives forth a tender savor. 
Oh, each so lost in all, who may re- 
sist 

The plea of lips unkissed, 
Or, hearing such a strain, 
Though kissed a thousand times, kisi 
not again ! 



ni. 

APPASSIONATO. 

Was it a distant flute 

That breathed, and now is mute • 



THE SLEEPER. 



187 



Dr that lost soul men call the nightin- 
gale, 
In bosky coverts hidden, 
Filling with sudden passion all the vale? 

Oh, chant again the tale, 
And call on her whose name returns, 
unbidden, 

A longing and a dream, 

Adela'ida ! 
For while the sprinkled stars 
Sparkle, and wink, and gleam, 
Adela'ida ! 
Darkness and perfume cleave the un- 
known bars 
Between the enamored heart and 
thee, 

And thou and I are free, 
Adela'ida ! 
Less than a name, a melody, art thou, 
A hope, a haunting vow ! 
The passion-cloven 
Spirit of thy Beethoven 
Claimed with less ardor than I claim 
thee now, 

Adela'ida ! 
Take form, at last : from these o'er- 
bending branches 
Descend, or from the grass arise 

I scarce shall see thine eyes, 
Or know what blush the shadow 
stanches ; 
But all my being's empty urn shall be 
Filled with thy mystery ! 



CAPKICCIOSO. 

Nay, nay ! the longings tender, 
The fear, the marvel, and the mys- 
tery, 
The shy, delicious dread, the unreserved 
surrender", 
Give, if thou canst, to me ! 

For I would be, 
In this expressive languor, 
''•Vhile night conceals, the wooed and 

not the wooer ; 
Shaken with supplication, keen as 
anger ; 

Pursued, and thou pursuer ! 
.''lt:nder my bosom of its hoarded tire, 
And so assail me, 
That coy denial fail me, 
"Slain by the mirrored shape of my de- 
sire! 

Thouo-h life s ! 'em overladen 



With conquered bliss, it only craves the 

more : 
Teach me the other half of passion's 
lore — 
Be thou the man, and I the maiden ! 

Ah ! come, 
While earth is waiting, heaven is 
dumb, 

And blossom-sighs 
So penetrate the indolent air, 
The very stars grow fragrant in the 
skies ! 

Arise, 
And thine approach shall make me 
fair, 
Thy borrowed pleading all too soon sub- 
due me, 

Till both forget the part 
And she who failed to woo me, 
So caught, is held to my impatient 
heart ! 



THE SLEEPER. 

The glen was fair as some Arcadian dell, 
All shadow, coolness, and the rush of 
streams, 

Save where the sprinkled blaze of noon- 
day fell 
Like stars within its under-sky of 
dreams. 

Rich leaf and blossomed grape and fern- 
tuft made 

Odors of life and slumber through the 
shade. 

" peaceful heart of Nature ! " was my 
sigh ; 
" How dost thou shame, in thine un- 
conscious bliss, 

Thy sure accordance with the changing 
sky, 

quiet heart, the restless beat of this ! 
Take thou the place false friends have 

vacant left, 
And bring thy bounty to repair the 
theft ! " 

So sighing, weary with the unsoothed 
pain 
From insect-stings of women and of 
men, 
Uneasy heart and ever-baffled brain, 

1 breathed the lonely beauty of the glen, 
And from the fragrant shadows where 

she stood 
Evoked the shyest Dryad of the wood 



188 



LYRICS. 



Lo ! on a slanting rock, outstretched at 
length, 
A woodman lay in slumber, fair as 
death, 

His limbs relaxed in all their supple 
strength, 
His lips half parted with his easy 
breath, 

And by one gleam of hovering light 
caressed 

His bare brown arm and white un- 
covered breast. 

" Why comes he here ? " I whispered, 
treading soft 
The hushing moss beside his flinty bed ; 

" Sweet are the haycocks in yon clover- 
croft, — 
The meadow turf were light beneath 
his head : 

Could he not slumber by the orchard- 
tree, 

And leave this quiet unprofaned for 
me? " 

But something held my step. I bent, 
and scanned 
(As one might view a veiny agate- 
stone) 

The hard, half- open fingers of his 
hand, 
Strong cords of wrist, knit round the 
jointed bone, 

And sunburnt muscles, firm and full of 
power, 

But harmless now as petals of a flower. 

There lay the unconscious Life, but, ah ! 
more fair 
Than ever blindly stirred in-leaf and 
bark, — 

Warmth, beauty, passion, mystery every- 
where, 
Beyond the Dryad's feebly burning 
spark 

Of cold poetic being : who could say 

If here the angel or the wild beast lay ? 

Then I looked up, and read his helpless 

face: 
Peace touched the temples and the 

eyelids, s'ept 
On drooping lashes, made itself a place 
In smiles that slowly to the corners 

crept 
Of parting lips, and came and went, to 

show 
Yne 'nappy freedom of the heart below. 



A holy rest ! wherein the man became 

Man's interceding representative : 
In Sleep's white realm fell off his mask 
of blame, 
And he was sacred, for that he did 
live. 
His presence marred no more the quiet 

deep, 
But all the glen became a shrine oi 
Sleep ! 

And then I mused : how lovely this re- 
pose ! 
How the shut sense its dwelling con- 
secrates ! 

Sleep guards itself against the hands of 
foes ; 
Its breath disarms the Envies and the 
Hates 

Which haunt our lives : were this mine 
enemy, 

My stealthy watch could not less rev- 
erent be ! 

So hang their hands, that would have 
done me wrong ; 
So sweet their breathing, Avhose un- 
kindly spite 

Provoked the bitter measures of my 
song ; 
So might they slumber, sacred in mj 
sight, 

Or I in theirs : — why waste contentious 
breath ? 

Forget, like Sleep; and then forgive, 
like Death ! 



MY FARM : A FABLE. 

Within a green and pleasant land 

I own a favorite plantation, 
Whose woods and meads, if rudelv 
planned, 
Are still, at least, my own creation. 
Some genial sun or kindly shower 
Has here and there wooed forth t. 
flower, 
And touched the fields with expecta 
tion. 

I know what feeds the soil I till, 

What harvest-growth it best y.ro 
duces : 
My forests shape themselves at will, 
My grapes mature their proper jaw- ■.■< 
I know the brambles and the weeds 



HARPOCKATES. 



189 



But know the fruits and wholesome 
seeds, — 
Of those the hurt, of these the uses. 

And working early, working late, 

Directing crude and random Nature, 
T is joy to see my small estate 
Grow fairer in the slightest feature. 
If but a single wild-rose blow 
Or fruit-tree bend with April snow 
That day am J. the happiest creature ! 

But round the borders of the land 
Dwell many neighbors, fond of rov- 
ing; 
With curious eye and prying hand 
About my fields I see them moving. 
Some tread my choicest herbage 

down, 
And some of weeds would weave a 
crown, 
And bid me wear it, unreproving. 



says one ; " who ever 



' What trees ! 
saw 
A grove, like this, of my possessing ? 
This vale offends my upland's law ; 
This sheltered garden needs suppress- 
ing. 
My rocks this grass would never 

yield, 
And how absurd the level field ! 
What here will grow is past my guess- 
ing." 

' Behold the slope ! " another cries : 

" No sign of bog or meadow near it ! 
A. varied surface I despise : 
There 's not a stagnant pool to cheer 
it!" 
" Why plough at all ? " remarked 

a third. 
" Heaven help the man ! " a fourth 
I heard, — 
" His farm 's a jungle : let him clear 
it !" 

No friendly counsel I disdain : 

My fields are free to every comer ; 
f et that which one to praise is fain 
But makes another's visage glummer. 
I bow them out, and welcome n, 
But while I seek some truth to 
win 
Goes by, unused, the golden summer ! 

&h ! vain the hope to find in each 
The wisdom each denies the other ; 



These mazes of conflicting speech 
All theories of culture smother. 
I'll raise and reap, with honest 

hand, 
The native harvest of my land ; 
Do thou the same, my wiser brother 1 



HARPOCRATES. 
" The rest is silence " — Hamlet. 

I. 

The message of the god I seek 

In voice, in vision, or in dream, 
Alike on frosty Dorian peak, 

Or by the slow Arcadian stream : 
Where'er the oracle is heard, 

I bow the head and bend the knee ; 
In dream, in virion, or in word, 

The sacred secret reaches me. 



Athwart the dim Trophonian caves, 

Bat-like, the gloomy whisper flew ; 
The lisping plash of Paphian waves 

Bathed every pulse in fiery dew : 
From Phcebus, on his cloven hill, 

A shaft of beauty pierced the air, 
And oaks of gray Dodona still 

Betrayed the Thunderer's presence 
there. 



The warmth of love, the grace of art, 

The joys that breath and blood ex- 
press, 
The desperate forays of the heart 

Into an unknown wilderness, — 
All these I know : but sterner needs 

Demand the knowledge which rausl 
dower 
The life that on achievement feeds. 

The grand activity of power. 

IV. 

What each reveals the shadow throws 

Of something unrevealed behind ; 
The Secret's lips forever close 

To mock the secret undivined : 
Thence late I came, from weary dream; 

The son of Isis to implore, 
Whose temple-front of granite gleams 

Across the Desert's yellow floor 



L90 



LYKICS. 



Lo ! where the sand insatiate, drinks 

The steady splendor of the air, 
Crouched on her heavy paws, the Sphinx 

Looks forth with old, unwearied stare ! 
Behind her, on the burning wall, 

The long processions flash and glow : 
The pillared shadows of the hall 

Sleep with their lotus-crowns below. 



A square of dark beyond, the door 

Breathes out the deep adytum's 
gloom : 
I cross the court's deserted floor, 

And stand within the sacred room. 
The priests repose from finished rite ; 

No echo rings from pavements trod; 
And sits alone, in swarthy light, 

The naked child, the temple's god. 



No sceptre, orb, or mystic toy 

Proclaims his godship, young and 
warm 
He sits alone, a naked boy, 

Clad in the beauty of his form. 
Dark, solemn stars, of radiance mild, 

His eyes illume the golden shade, 
And sweetest lips that never smiled 

The finger hushes, on them laid. 



Oh, never yet in trance or dream 

That falls when crowned desire has 
died, 
Bo breathed the air of power supreme, 

So breathed, and calmed, and satisfied ! 
Those mystic lips were not unsealed 

The temple's awful hush to break, 
But unto inmost sense revealed, 

The deity his message spake : 



If me thou knowest, stretch thy hand 
And my possessions thou shalt reach : 
( grant no help, I break no band, 
I sit above the gods that teach. 
The latest-born, my realm includes 
The old, the strong, the near, the 
far, — 
Kerene beyond their changeful moods, 
And fixed as Night's unmoving star. 



" A child, I leave the dance of Earth 

To be my horned mother's care : 
My father Amnion's Bacchic mirth, 

Delighting gods, I may not share. 
I turn from Beauty, Love, and Power, 

In singing vale, on laughing sea ; 
From Youth and Hope, and wait th« 
hour 

When weary Knowledge turns to me 



"Beneath my hand the sacred springs 

Of Man's mysterious being burst, 
And Death within my shadow brings 

The last of life, to greet the first. 
There is no god, or grand or fair, 

On Orcan or Olympian field, 
But must to me his treasures bear, 

His one peculiar secret yield. 



" I wear no garment, drop no shade 

Before the eyes that all things see ; 
My worshippers, howe'er arrayed, 

Come in their nakedness to me. 
The forms of life like gilded towers 

May soar, in air and sunshine drest, — * 
The home of Passions and of Powers, — 

Yet mine the crypts whereon they rest 



" Embracing all, sustaining all, 

Consoling with unuttered lore, 
Who finds me in my voiceless hall 

Shall need the oracles no more. 
I am the knowledge that insures 

Peace, after Thought's bewilderh g 
range ; 
I am the patience that endures ; 

I am the truth that cannot change r 



RUN WILD. 

Here was the gate. The broken paling 

As if before the wind, inclines, 
The posts half rotted, and the pickets 
failing, 
Held only up by vines. 

The plum-trees stand, though gnari*>« 
and specklei 
With leprosy of old disease ; 



CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 



191 



3y cells of wormy life the trunks are 
freckled, 
And moss enfolds their knees. 

I push aside the boughs and enter : 

Alas ! the garden's nymph has fled, 
With every charm that leaf and blossom 
lent her, 
And left a hag instead. 

Some female satyr from the thicket, 

Child of the bramble and the weed, 
Sprang shouting over the unguarded 
wicket 
With all her savage breed. 

She banished hence the ordered graces 
That smoothed a way for Beauty's 
feet, 
And gave her ugliest imps the vacant 
places, 
To spoil what once was sweet. 

Here, under rankling mulleins, dwindle 

The borders, hidden long ago ; 
Here shoots the dock in many a rusty 
spindle, 
And purslane creeps below. 

The thyme runs wild, and vainly sweet- 
ens, 
Hid from its bees, the conquering 
grass ; 
And even the rose with briery menace 
threatens 
To tear me as I pass. 

Where show the weeds a grayer color, 

The stalks of lavender and rue 
Stretch like imploring arms, — but, ever 
duller, 
They slowly perish too. 

Only the pear-tree's fruitless scion 

Exults above the garden's fall ; 
. nly the thick-maned ivy, like a lion, 
Devours the crumbling wall. 

IVhat still survives becomes as savage 

As that which entered to destroy, 

Taking an air of riot and of ravage, 

Of strange and wanton joy. 

$o copse unpruned, no mountain hollow, 

So lawless in its growth may be : 
Where the wild weeds have room to 
chase and follow, 
They graceful are, and free. 



But Nature here attempts revenges 

For her obedience unto toil ; 
She brings her rankest ljfe with loath 
some changes 
To smite the fattened soil 

For herbs of sweet and wholesome navoi 
She plants her stems of 1 itter j .ace ; 
From flowers she steals the scent, from 
fruits the flavor, 
From homelier things the use. 

Her angel is a mocking devil, 

If once the law relax its bands ; 
In Man's neglected fields she holds her 
revel, 
Takes back, and spoils his lands. 

Once having broken ground, he never 

The virgin sod can plant again : 
The soil demands his services forever, — 
And God gives sun and rain ! 



"CASA GUIDI WINDOWS.' 

Returned to warm existence, — even 
as one 

Sentenced, then blotted from the heads- 
man's book, 

Accepts with doubt the life again 
begun, — 

I leave the duress of my couch, and look 

Through Casa Guidi windows to the sun. 

A fate like Farinata's held me fast 
In some devouring pit of fever-fire. 
Until, from ceaseless forms of toil that 

cast 
Their will upon me, whirled in endless 

gyre, 
The Spirit of the House brought help 

at last. 

With Giotto wrestling, through the des- 
perate hours 
A thousand crowded frescos must I paint, 
Or snatch from twilights dim, and dusky 

bowers, 
Alternate forms of'bacchanal and saint, 
The streets of Florence and her beau- 
teous towers. 

Weak, wasted with those torments of 

the brain, 
The circles of the Tuscan master's hell 
Were dreams no more; but when their 

fiery strain 



192 



LYRICS. 



Was fiercest, deep and sudden stillness 

fell 
Athwart the storm, and all was peace 

again. * 

She came, whom Casa Guidi's chambers 

knew, 
And know more proudly, an Immortal, 

now : 
The air without a star was shivered 

through 
With the resistless radiance of her brow, 
And glimmering landscapes from the 

darkness grew. 

Thin phantom-like ; and yet she brought 
me rest. 

Unspoken words, an understood com- 
mand 

Sealed weary lids with sleep, together 
pressed 

In clasping quiet wandering hand to 
hand, 

And smoothed the folded cloth above 
the breast. 

Now, looking through these windows, 

where the day 
Shines on a terrace splendid with the 

gold 
Of autumn shrubs, and green with 

glossy bay, 
Once-more her face, re-made from dust, 

I hold 
[n light so clear it cannot pass away : — 

The quiet brow ; the face so frail and fair 
For such a voice of song ; the steady eye, 
Where shone the spirit fated to outwear 
Its fragile house ; — and on her features 

lie 
The soft half-shadows of her drooping 

hair. 

Who could forget those features, having 

known ? 
Whose memory do his kindling rever- 

ence wrong- 
That heard the soft Ionian flute, whose 

tone 
Changed with the silver trumpet of her 

song 1 
bo sweeter airs from woman's lips 

were blown. 

Ah, in the silence she has left behind 
How many a sorrowing voice ( f life is 
still! 



Songless she left the land that cannoi 

find 
Song for its heroes ; and the Roman 

hill, 
Once free, shall for her ghost the laurel 

wind. 

The tablet tells you, " Here she wrota 

and died," 
And grateful Florence bids the recud 

stand : 
Here bend Italian love and Engli-l. 

pride 
Above her grave, — and one remoter 

land, 
Free as her prayers would make it, at 

their side. 

I will not doubt the vision : yonder see 

The moving clouds that speak of free- 
dom won ! 

And life, new-lighted, with a lark-like 
glee 

Through Casa Guidi windows hails the 
sun, 

Grown from the rest her spirit gave ta 
me. 
Florence, 1867 



THE GUESTS OF NIGHT. 

I ride in a gloomy land, 

I travel a ghostly shore, — 
Shadows on either hand, 

Darkness behind and before ; 
Veils of the summer night 

Dusking the woods I know ; 
A whisper haunts the height, 

And the rivulet croons below. 

A waft from the roadside bank 

Tells where the wild-rose nods ; 
The hollows are heavy and dank 

With the steam of the golden-rod: 
Incense of Night and Death, 

Odors of Life and Day, 
Meet and mix in a breath, 

Drug me, and lapse away. 

Is it the hand of the Tast, 

Stretched from its open tomb, 
Or a spell from thy glamoury cast, 

mellow and mystic gloom ? 
All, wherein I have part, 

All that was loss or gain, 
Slips from the clasping heart, 

Breaks from the j-asping brain. 



SOLDIERS OF PEACE. 



193 



Lo, what is left ? I am bare 

As a new-born soul, — I am naught ; 
My deeds are as dust in air, 

"My words are as ghosts of thought. 
I ride through the night alone, 

Detached from the life that seemed, 
And the best I have felt or known 

Is less than the least I dreamed. 

But the Night, like Agnppa's glass, 

Now, as I question it, clears ; 
Over its vacancy pass 

The shapes of the crowded years ; 
Meanest and most august, 

Hated or loved, I see 
The dead that have long been dust, 

The living, so dead to me ! 

Place in the word's applause ? 

Nay, there is nothing there ! 
Strength from unyielding laws ? 

A gleam, and the glass is bare. 
The lines of a life in song % 

Faint runes on the rocks of time 1 
I see but a formless throng 

Of shadows that fall or climb. 

"What else ? Am I then despoiled 

Of the garments I wove and wore ? 
Have I so refrained and toiled, 

To find there is naught in store ? 
I have loved, — I love ! Behold, 

How the steady pictures rise ! 
And the shadows are pierced with gold 

From the stars of immortal eyes. 

Nearest or most remote, 

But dearest, hath none delayed ; 
And the spirits of kisses float 

O'er the lips that never fade. 

he Night each guest denies 

Of the hand or haughty brain, 
But the loves that were, arise, 

And the loves that are, remain. 



CHANT. 

FOR THE BRYANT FESTIVAL. 

November 5 1864 

One hour be silent, sounds of war ! 

Delay the battle he foretold, 
\nd let the Bard's triumphant star 
Send down from heaven its milder 
gold ! 

13 



Let Fame, that plucks but laurel now 
For loyal heroes, turn away, 

And twine, to crown our poet's brow, 
The greener garland of the bay. 

For he, our earliest minstrel, fills 
The land with echoes, sweet and long 

Gives language to her silent hills, 
And bids her rivers move to song. 

The Phosphor of the Nation's dawn, 
Sole risen above our tuneless coast, 

As Hesper now, his lamp burns on, — 
The leader of the starry host. 

He sings of mountains and of streams, 
Of storied field and haunted dale, 

Yet hears a voice through all his dreams, 
Which says : " The Good shall yet 
prevail." 

He sings of Truth, he sings of Bight ; 

He sings of Freedom, and his strains 
March with our armies to the fight, 

Ring in the bondman's falling chains. 

God, bid him live, till in her place 
Truth, crushed to earth, again shall 
rise, — 

The " mother of a mighty race " 
Fulfil her poet's prophecies ! 



SOLDIERS OF PEACE. 



Providence, R. I., June 27, 1877. 



It is the brave that first forget, 
And noble foes that first unite ; 

Not they who strife and passion whet, 
Then slink when comes the need to 
smite. 

'T is mutual courage that forgives, 

And answering honor that outlives 
The onset's hour, the battle's day: 

The hearts that dare are quick to feel ; 

The hands that wound are soft to he;ij ; 

The blood that dims a hero's steel 
His proud tears wash away ! 



One holier sun awakes at last 

For North and South the blithe, bright 
hours : 
No more upon our dead are cast 

The once divided "ifts of flowers 



194 



LYRICS. 



But where the live-oak hides in moss, 
And where the plumy larches toss 

Their arms above the mayflower's bed, 

And where wide waves of prairie crawl 

To meet, far-west, their mountain-wall, 

The People's voice says : " Peace to all ! 

We honor equal dead." 



Oh, never from our elm-tree shades 
So sweetly piped the thrush, as now; 

Nor, 'mid the lonely Everglades, 

The mocking-bird on cypress bough ! 

Nor wild-grass wove by meadow-rills, 

Nor clover on the happy hills, 
So soft a carpet for the Spring ! 

Bound is each hand that fain would 
spoil : 

The Truce of God upon our soil 

Descends, like Sabbath after toil, 
His benison to bring ! 



'T is time your bard restrung his harp, 
That long hath echoed in its note 

The volley's rattle, fierce and sharp, 
The thunder-bass of cannon-throat ; 

That sang of fields where Glory swayed. 

But wingless Victory paused, and stayed 
To see her only flag unfurled ; 

That summoned, as a bugle blown ; 

That challenged, as a trumpet's tone; 

That quickened, as a bolt is thrown 
From heaven, to shake the world ! 



Ah ! must we then renounce the theme 
That first can rouse and best inspire, — 
The splendor of the soldier's dream, 

The ardor of the patriot's fire 1 
When each, to sternest duty bowed, 
Makes all, as common kindred, proud, 

And blots the long reproach of Time, — 
\Vhen Youth forgets what most is fair, 
And Age assumes a nobler care, 
And Manhood, as a wave in air, 
Heaves high, to fall sublime ! 



The virtues, poured in lavish flood 
To whelm our coarser Self in shame ; 

The pure infection of the blood 
That burned for loftier meed than 
fame, — 



Must these be lost ? — or absent now 
The song of lip, the light of brow, 

Remembering they were doubly ours 
And, though we honor both as one, 
That strain of blood, in both begun, 
Say, lies it buried from the sun, 
Beneath memorial flowers ? 

VII. 

Not so ! — the summit of his deed 
Is the true measure of the man, 
Though once alone he caught the spee<; 

That every baser aim outran. 
What once a moment is, assures 
The certainty of what endures, 

And thus its sacred law decrees ; 

So ye, whom battle spared or scarred, 

Safe-sheltered now from disregard, 

Hearken to England's blind old bard : 

" Peace hath her victories ! " 



What once, in fiery test of war, 

So proved itself, must ever stand, 
To make the land worth living for, 

Since others died to save the land ! — 
Take from their lips the parted breath 
Make Life as glorious as is Death 

To them that triumph when they fall 
Still bid the phantom squadrons throng 
Their purpose and their will prolong 
To guard the Right, repel the Wrong, 
And giving, gain, their all ! 



Are they but soldiers who enlist 

When peril shocks the Nation's heart ? 
Who leave the maiden's lips unkissed, 

Or kiss the wife and child, and part ? — 
But soldiers then, when calls the drum 
And calls the flashing bayonet : ' ' Come ! " 
And batteries challenge : " If you 
dare ! " — 
When all the standards wave unfurled, 
And other clouds than Heaven's are 

hurled 
To dim the beauty of the world, 
And death floats free in air ! 



They most are soldiers, who shall keep 
That climax of their manhood yet ; 

Who stand on guard when others sleep 
And bear in mind what all forget ! 



THE SONG OF 1876. 



195 



Not in the clash of steel is found, 
For them, the only battle-ground : 
Equipped and armed, through life 

they go, 
Their hearts' best blood resolved to 

spend, 
Where Honor shows some grander 

end, — 
For whom each true man is a friend, 
And each false man a foe! 



If knaves beguile, by felon art, 
The shifting favor of the hour ; 

If civic rule from right depart, 
And brazen Impudence has power : 

If low Ambition buy his place 

While Merit waits in half-disgrace, 
Still undecided sways the fight: 

The bugle still to charge commands ; 

There is no truce of tongues or hands, 

No quarter, while one foeman stands 
To mock eternal Right ! 

XII, 

The idle blade is gnawed with rust, 
Though meteor of a hundred fields ; 

The lance, unhandled, falls to dust, 
That proved its grain on shivered 
shields. 

And Manhood, that has learned to dare, 

Should as a sword his courage wear, 
His honor as a flag defend ; — 

Should stand, amid the heedless host, 

A lifelong sentry at his post, 

His sole device and knightly boast : 
To break, but not to bend ! 



Soldiers of Peace ! — in war began 
Your service, and it must not cease 

Until the soldier through the man 
Has conquered and ennobled peace ! 

Frank eyes of youth grow bright, to trace 

A spell on each historic face 
That sets your lives their own above ; 

And woman's homage, sweet and shy, 

Not woman's pride shall dare deny, 

Since he who readiest is to die 
Is truest in his love ! 



XIV. 

One loyal habit summons all 
From out the dust of old desires 



One spark of truth youi deeds let fall 
Shall fill the land with fresher fires! 
Though Youth's belief be Manhood's 

doubt, 
And generous hopes be tiampled out 

By cynic scorn or selfish will, 
Yet honor stays, devotion burns, 
And pride that mean concession spurns : 
No man his early faith unlearns, 
And keeps his manhood still! 



This, Soldiers, be your chosen fate, 
Your fame that longest shall endure 

'T is noble, thus to save a State, 
But nobler yet to make it pure. 

For all whose swords were bravely 
crossed 

There is no true cause that was lost ! 
Defeat unites with Victory 

To win, for each, a grander aim, — 

One Fatherland, redeemed from blame ; 

One Past, of sadder, prouder fame ; 
One Future, just and free ! 

THE SONG OF 1876. 



Waken, voice of the Land's Devotion J 

Spirit of freedom, awaken all ! 
Ring, ye shores, to the Song of Ocean, 
Rivers, answer, and mountains, call ! 
The golden day has come : 
Let every tongue be dumb, 
That sounded its malice or murmured 
its fears ; 

She hath won her story ; 
She wears her glory ; 
We crown her the Land of a Hundred 
Years ! 



Out of darkness and toil and danger 
Into the light of Victory's day, 
Help to the weak, and home to the 
stranger, 
Freedom to all, she hath held htr 
way! 

Now Europe's orphans rest 
Upon her mother-breast : 
The voices of Nations are heard in the 
cheers ; 

That shall cast upon her 
New love and honor, 
And crown her the Queen of a Hundred 
Years ! 



196 



LYRICS. 



North and South, we are met as broth- 
ers : 
East and West, we are wedded as 
one! 
Right of each shall secure our mother's ; 
Child of each is her faithful son ! 
We give Thee heart and hand, 
Our glorious native Land, 
Fez battle has tried thee, and time en- 
dears : 

We will write thy story, 
And keep thy glory, 
As pure as of old for a Thousand Years ! 



IMPROVISATIONS. 



Through the lonely halls of the night 

My fancies fly to thee : 
Through the lonely halls of the night, 

Alone, I cry to thee. 

For the stars bring presages 
Of love, and of love's delight : 

Let them bear my messages 
Through the lonely halls of the night ! 

In the golden porch of the morn 
Thou com'st anew to me : 

In the golden porch of the morn, 
Say, art thou true to me 1 
If dreams have shaken thee 

With the call thou canst not scorn, 
Let Love awaken thee 

In the golden porch of the morn ! 



The rose of your cheek is precious ; 

Your eyes are warmer than wine ; 
You catch men's souls in the meshes 

Of curls that ripple and shine — 
But, ah ! not mine. 

Your lips are a sweet persuasion; 

Your bosom a sleeping sea ; 
Tour voice, with its fond evasion, 

Is a call and a charm to me ; 
But I am free ! 

As the white moon lifts the waters, 
You lift the passions, and lead ; 

&.s a chieftainess proud with slaughter: 
You smile on the hearts that bleed : 
But I take heed ! 



in. 

Come to me, Lalage ! 

Girl of the flying feet, 

Girl of the tossing hair 

And the red mouth, small and sweet 

Less of the earth than air, 

So witch ingly fond and fair, 

Lalage ! 

Touch me, Lalage ! 
Girl of the soft white hand, 
Girl of the low white brow 
And the roseate bosom band ; 
Bloom from an orchard bough 
Less downy-soft than thou, 
Lalage ! 

Kiss me, Lalage ! 

Girl of the fragrant breath, 

Girl of the sun of May ; 

As a bird that flutters in death, 

My fluttering pulses say : 

If thou be Death, yet stay, 

Lalaoe ! 



What if I couch in the grass, or listlessly 

rock on the waters ? 
If in the market I stroll, sit by the beak- 
ers of wine ? 
Witched by the fold of a cloud, the flush 

of a meadow in blossom, 
Soothed by the amorous airs, touched 

by the lips of the dew ? 
First must be color and odor, the simple, 

unmingled sensation, 
Then, at the end of the year, apples and 

honey and grain. 
You, reversing the order, your barren 

and withering branches 
Vainly will shake in the winds, mini 

hanging heavy with gold ! 



Though thy constant love I share, 

Yet its gift is rarer ; 
In my youth I thought thee fair ; 

Thou art older and fairer ! 

Full of more than young delight 
Now day and night are ; 

For the presence, then so bright, 
Is closer, brighter. 

In the haste of youth we miss 
Its best of blisses : 



IMPROVISATIONS. 



197 



Sweeter than the stolen kiss 
Are the granted kisses. 

Dearer than the words that hide 

The love abiding, 
Are the words that fondly chile, 

"When love needs chiding. 

Higher than the perfect song 
For which love longeth, 

Is the tender fear of wrong, 
That never wrongeth. 

She whom youth alone makes dear 
May awhile seem nearer : 

Thou art mine so many a year, 
The older, the dearer! 



A grass-blade is my warlike lance, 

A rose-leaf is my shield ; 
Beams of the sun are, every one, 

My chargers for the field. 

The morning gives me golden steeds, 
The moon gives silver-white ; 

The stars drop down, my helm to 
crown, 
When I go forth to fight. 

Against me ride in iron mail 

The squadrons of the foe: 
The bucklers flash, the maces crash, 

The haughty trumpets blow. 

One touch, and all, with armor cleft, 

Before me turn and yield. 
Straight on I ride : the world is wide ; 

A rose-leaf is my shield ! 

Then dances o'er the waterfall 

The rainbow, in its glee ; 
The daisy sings, the lily rings 

Her bells of victory. 

So am I armed where'er I go, 
And mounted night or day : 

Who shall oppose the conquering rose, 
And who the sunbeam slay 1 



The star o' the morn is whitest, 
The bosom of dawn is brightest 
The dew is sown, 
And the blossom blown 
therein thou, my Dear, delighiest 



Hark, I have risen before thee, 

That the spell of the day be o'er thee ; 

That the flush of my love 

May fall from above, 
And, mixed with the morn, adore thee 

Dark dreams must now forsake thee, 
And the bliss of thy being take thee ! 

Let the beauty of morn 

In thine eyes be born, 
And the thought of me awake thee ! 

Come forth to hear thy praises, 
Which the wakening world upraises ; 
Let thy hair be spun 
With the gold o' the sun, 
And thy feet be kissed by the daisies 1 



Near in the forest 

I know a glade ; 
Under the tree-tops 

A secret shade ! 

Vines are the curtains, 
Blossoms the floor ; 

Voices of waters 
Sing evermore. 

There, when the sunset s 

Lances of gold 
Pierce, or the moonlight 

Is silvery cold, 

Would that an angel 

Led thee to me — 
So, out of loneliness 

Love should be ! 

Never the breezes 

Should lisp what we say. 
Never the waters 

Our secret betray ! 

Silence and shadow, 
After, might reign ; 

But the old life be ours 
Never again ! 



What if we lose the seasons 

That seem of our happiest choice, 

That Life is fuller of reasons 
To sorrow than rejoice, 

That Time is richer in treasons, 
Anil Hope has a faltering voice * 



198 



LYRICS. 



The dreams wherewith we were dovrered 
Were gifts of an ignorant brain ; 

The truth has at last overpowered 
The visions we clung to in vain : 

But who would resist, as a coward, 
The knowledge that cometh from 
pain? 

For the love, as a flower of the meadow, 
The love that stands firm as a tree — 

For the stars that have vanished in 
shadow, 
The daylight, enduring and free — 

For a dream of the dim El Dorado, 
A world to inhabit have we ! 



Heart, in my bosom beating 
Fierce, as a power at bay ! 
Ever thy rote repeating 
Louder, and then retreating, 
Who shall thy being sway ? 

Over my will and under, 

P^qually king and slave, 
Sometimes I hear thee thunder, 
Sometimes falter and blunder 
Close to the waiting grave ! 

Oft, in the beautiful season, 

Restless thou art, and wild ; 
Oft, with never a reason, 
Turnest and doest me treason, 
Treating the man as a child ! 

Cold, when passion is burning, 
Quick, when I sigh for rest, 
Kindler of perished yearning, 
Ciyb and government spurning, 
Thou art lord of the breast ! 



1 ill, for we drink to Labor ! 

And Labor, you know, is Prayer : 
I '11 be as grand as my neighbor 
Abroad, and at home as bare ! 
Debt, and bother, and hurry ! 

Olhers are burdened so : 
Here 's to the goddess Worry, 
And here 's to the goddess Show 

Reckless of what comes after, 
Silent of whence we come : 

Splendor and feast and laughter 
Make the questioners dumb. 



Debt, and bother, and hurry ! 

Nobody needs to know : 
Here 's to the goddess Worry, 

And here's to the goddess Sho* 

Fame is what you have taken, 
Character 's what you give : 
When to this truth you waken, 
Then you begin to live ! 
Debt, and bother, and hurry ! 

Others have risen so : 
Here 's to the goddess Worry, 
And here 's to the goddess Show- 
Honor 's a thing for derision, 
Knowledge a thing reviled ; 
Love is a vanishing vision, 
Faith is the toy of a child ! 
Debt, and bother, and hurry ! 

Honesty 's old and slow: 
Here 's to the goddess Worry, 
And here 's to the goddess Show 



MARIGOLD. 

Homely, forgotten flower, 
Under the rose's bower, 

Plain as a weed, 
Thou, the half-summer long, 
W attest and waxest strong, 
Even as waits a song 

Till men shall heed. 

Then, when the lilies die, 
And the carnations lie 

In spicy death, 
Over thy bushy sprays 
Burst with a sudden blaze 
Stars of the August days, 

With Autumn's breath. 

Fain would the calyx hold ; 
But splits, and half the gold 

Spills lavishly : 
Frost, that the rose appalls, 
Wastes not thy coronals, 
Till Summer's lustre falls 

And fades in thee. 



WILL AND LAW. 

Will, in his lawless mirth, 

Cried : " Mine be the sphere of Eai ta 



THE IMP OF SPRING-TIME. 



199 



Mine be the hills and seas, 
Night calm and morning breeze, 
Shadowed and sun-lit hours, 
Passions, delights, and powers, 
Each in its turn to choose, 
All to reject or use — 
Tims myself to fulfil, 
For I am Will ! " 

Nature, with myriad mouth, 
Answered from North and South 
" Back to thy nest again, 
Dream of the idle brain ! 
Eyes shall open, and see 
Power attained through me : 
Mine the increasing days, 
Mine the delight that stays, 
Service from each to draw — 
For I am Law ! " 



TRUE LOVE'S TIME OF DAY. 

When shall I find you, sweetheart, 
That shall be and must be mine ? 

I seek, though the world divides us, 
Aud I send you the secret sign. 

There's blood in the veins of morn- 
ing, 

So fresh it may well deceive, 
When man goes forth as Adam, 

And woman awaits him as Eve. 

There 's an elvish spell in twilight 
When the bats of Fancy fly, 

And sense is bound by a question, 
And Fate by the quick reply. 

And the moon is an old enchantress, 
With her snares of glimmer and 
shade, 

That have ever been false and fatal 
Tc the dreams of man and maid. 

But I'll meet you at noonday, sweet- 
heart, 

In the billowy fields of grain, 
When the sun is hot for harvest, 

And the roses athirst for rain. 

With the daylight's truth on your fore- 
head, 
And the daylight's love in your 
eye, 
( '11 kiss you without a questbn, 
And you '11 kiss me without reply. 



YOUTH. 

Child with the butterfly, 
Boy with the ball, 

Youth with the maiden — 
Still I am all. 

Wisdom of manhood 
Keeps the old joy ; 

Conquered illusions 
Leave me a boy. 

Falsehood and bareness 
Teach me but this : 

Earth still is beautiful, 
Being is bliss. 

Locks to my temples 
Hoary may cling ; 

'T is but as daisies 

On meadows of spring. 



THE IMP OF SPRING-TIME. 

Over the eaves where the sunbeams fall 

Twitters the swallow ; 
I hear from the mountains the cataract 
call : 

Follow, oh, follow ! 

Buds on the bushes and blooms on the 
mead 
Swiftly are swelling ; 
Hark ! the* Spring whispereth : " Make 
ye with speed 
Ready my dwelling." 

Out of the tremulous blue of the air 

Calling before her, 
Who was it bade me " Awake and pre- 
pare, 

Thou mine adorer ! " 

" Leave me," I said ; " I have known 
thee of old, 
Love the annoyer, 
Arming, at last, with thine arrows of 
gold, 
Time, the Destroyer." 

" Follow," he laughed, " where the bliaa 
of the earth 
Wooes thee, compelling; 
v et in the Spring, and her thousandfold 
birth, 
I, too, am dwelling." 



200 



LYRICS. 



Out of the buds he was peeping, and 
sang 
Soft with the swallow ; 
Yea, and he called where the cataract 
sprang : 
Follow, oh, follow i 

Vain to defy, or evade, or, in sooth, 

Bid him to leave me ! 
But his deception is dearer than truth : 

Let him deceive me ! 



CANOPUS. 



A LEAP FROM THE PAST. 

Above the palms, the peaks of pearly 
gray 
That hang, like dreams, along the 
slumbering skies, 
An urn of fire that never burns away, 
I see Canopus rise. 

An urn of light, a golden-hearted torch, 
Voluptuous, drowsy-throbbing mid 
the stars, 
As, incense-fed, from Aphrodite's porch 
Lifted, to beacon Mars. 

Is it from songs and stories of the Past, 
With names and scenes that make 
- our planet fair, — 
From Babylonian splendors, vague and 
vast, 
And flushed Arabian air : — 

Or sprung from richer longings of the 
brain 
And spices of the blood, this hot desire 
To lie beneath that mellow lamp again 
And breathe its languid fire 1 

From tales of nights when watching 
David saw 
Its amorous ray on bright Bathsheba's 
head; 
'Jr Charmian stole, the golden gauze to 
draw 
Round Cleopatra's bed ? 

Or when white-breasted Paris touched 
the lone 
Laconian isle, where stayed his flying 
oars, 
And Helen breathed the scent of violets, 
blown 
Along the bosky shores ? 



Or Kalidasa's maiden, wandering 

through 
The moonlit jungles of the Indian 
lands, 
While shamed mimosas from her form 
withdrew 
Their thin and trembling hands ? 

For Fancy takes from Passion power to 
build 
A brighter fane than bloodless 
Thought decrees, 
And loves to see its spacious chambers 
filled 
With tropic tapestries. 

And, past those halls which for itself 
the mind 
,Builds, permanent as marble, and as 
cold, 
In warm surprises of the blood we find 
The sumptuous dream unfold ! 

There shines the leaf and bursts the 
blossom sheath 
On hills deep-mantled in eternalJune, 
Or wave their whispering silver, un- 
derneath 
The rainbow-cinctured moon. 

Around the pillars of the palm-tree 
bower 
The orchids cling, in rose and purple 
spheres ; 
Shield-broad the lily floats ; the aloe 
flower 
Foredates its hundred years. 

Along the lines of coral, white and warm. 
Breaks the white surf ; hushed is the 
glassy air, 
And only mellower murmurs tell thai 
storm 
Is raging otherwhere. 

The mansion gleans with dome ano, 
arch Moresque — 
Ah, bliss to lie beside the jasper urn 
Of founts, and through the open ara 
besque 
To watch Canopus burn ! 

To sit at feasts, and flaid odors drain 
Of daintiest nectar that from grape 
is caught, 
While faint narcotics chea* the idU 
brain 
With phantom shapes of u«>ugnt ; 



CUPIDO. 



201 



Or, listening to the sweet, seductive 
voice, 
No will hath silenced, since the world 
began, 
To weigh delight unchallenged, making 
choice 
Of earlier joys of man ! 

Permit the dream : our natures twofold 
are. 
Sense hath its own ideals, which pre- 
pare 
A rosy background for the soul's white 
star, 
Whereon it shines more fair. 

Not crystal runs, dissolved from mount 
ain snow, 
The poet's blood ; but amber, musk, 
impart 
Their scents, and gems their orbed or 
shivered glow, 
To feed his tropic heart. 

While Form and Color undivorced re- 
main 
In every planet gilded by the sun, 
His craft shall forge the radiant mar- 
riage-chain 
That makes them purely One ! 
1865. 



CUPIDO. 

THE REVIVAL OF AN ANTIQUATED 
FIGURE, AFTER READING THE VIEWS 
OF CERTAIN WOMEN ON MARRIAGE 
AND DIVORCE. 

I. 

Eoseate darling, 
Dimpled with laughter, 
Nursed on the bosom 
Pierced by thee after ; 
Fed with the rarest 
Milk of the fairest 
Fond Aphrodite, 
2hi!d as thou art, as a god thou art 
mighty ! 



Thou art the only 
Demigod left us ; 
Fate hath bereft us, 
Science made lonely. 
Visions and fables 
Shrink from our portals ; 



Long have we banished 
The stately Immortals ; 
Yet, when we sent them 
Trooping to Hades — 
Olympian gentlemen, 
Paphian ladies — 
Thou hadst re-risen. 
Ere the dark prison 
Closed for the last time, 
Slipped from the gate and returned tc 
thy pastime ! 



Ever a mystery, 
All of our history 
Brightens with thee ! 
Systems have chained us, 
Rulers restrained us, 
Fortune disdained us, 
Still thou wert free ! 
Lofty or lowly, 
Brutish or holy, 
Spacious or narrow, 
Never a life was secure from thy arrow I 



Ah, but they 've told us 
Love is a system ! 
They would withhold us 
When Ave have kissed him ! 
All that perplexes 
Sweetly the sexes 
They would control, 
And with Affinity 
Drive the Divinity 
Out of the soul ! 
Better, they say, is 
Phryne or Lais 
Than the immutable 
Faith, and its suitable 
Vow, he hath taught us 
Foolish the tender 
Pang, the surrender, 
When he has caught us ; 
Fancies and fetters are all he has broughi 
us. 



Future parental, 
Physical, mental 
Laws they prescribe us 
And with ecstatic 
Strict mathematic 
Blisses would bribe us. 
Alkali, acid, 
They with a placid 



202 



LYRICS. 



Mien would unite, 
And the wild rapture 
Of chasing and capture 
Curb with a right ; 
Measuring, dealing 
Even the kiss of the twilight of feeling ! 



Who shall deliver 
Theo from their credo ? 
Rent is thy quiver, 
Darling Cupido ! 
Naked, yet blameless, 
Tricksily aimless, 
Secretly sure, 
Who, then, thy plighting. 
Wilful uniting, 
Now will endure ? 
Now, when experiment 
Based upon Science 
Sets at defiance, 
Harshly, thy merriment, 
Who shall caress thee 
ft" arm in his bosom, and bliss thee and 
bless thee ? 



Ever 't is May-time ! 
Ever 't is play-time 
Of Beauty and Youth ! 
Freed from confusion, 
Hides in illusion 
Nature her truth. 
Books and discourses, 
What can they tell us ? 
Blood with its forces 
Still will compel us ! 
Cold ones may fly to 
Systems, or try to ; 
Innocent fancy 
Still will enwind us, 
Love's necromancy, 
Snare us and bind us, 
Systems and rights lie forgotten behind 
us. 



THE VOICES OF ROME. 

i. 

Beb, from the tower of the Capitol, 
looking abroad, 
Rir'n on ruin, the bones of the skele- 
ton spread ! 



Pecked through the ages by vultures of 
force and of fraud, 
Spoiled by the warrior, crushed by 
the hierarch's tread. 
Build, if thou canst, the unlimited splen- 
dors again, 
Pillar and architrave back to their 
places restore : 
So to confess that the effort of fancy is 
vain, — 
Though it has been, yet it can be no 
more ! 



Behold ! the ages cannot trust us 

With even the records meant to 
last : 
Is this the home of that Augustus 

Whose throne upbore the splendid 
past? 
Of all the triumphs, the orations, 

The wealth, is nothing left but these, 
Which tell of old abominations, 

Of treacheries and tyrannies ? 



Here, like an Emperor, rideth Aureliua 
still ; 
There, in unperishing marble, Tibe- 
rius stands : 
Rome and her Caesars extend from the 
sovereign hill 
Sceptre of rule, and their spirits yet 
govern the lands ! 
What are the shrines which, usurping 
their temples, arise 
Over the altars of gods, but the shadow 
of theirs ? 
Mimicking incense and sacrifice, cloud- 
ing the skies, 
Bright with old deities, thus with con- 
fusion of prayers ! 



IV. 

The fern o'erhangs the ancient altar, 

The ivy drapes the ruined shrine, 
Yet Faith remains though fancy fal- 
ter, 

And loss of gods makes men di 
vine. 
Pure as the sunshine, and as fervent, 

Our truth the stately wreck illumes 
Aud not as ruler, but as servant, 

We call the Past from all its tombs. 



PANDORA. 



203 



Delve, as ye may, for the fragments of 
Art that has died, 
Fragments they are of a beauty ye 
cannot recall ; 
Down from the loneliest column that 
still doth ahide, 
Graces unknown to the following cent- 
uries fall. 
Take from the ruin and cleanse from 
the mould of decay 
Statue or torso or bust, and exalt 
them as yours : 
Yours are the fugitive triumphs, the art 
of a day, — 
Theirs are the beauty and strength 
that forever endures ! 



Ah, hark ! 't is yet the undying Siren 

Who sings more sweetly than of old, 
To make us feel our days are iron 

Beside the perished days of gold : 
But Beauty now, no more an exile 

From common hearths and humble 
homes, 
Assumes new being, warm and flexile, 

And is the world's, not merely Rome's ! 



Ah, from the pinnacle, ne'er to be 
mounted again, 
Mock us the grandeurs august of the 
past that has fled ! 
Valor and sacrifice, triumph of heart 
and of brain, 
Wealth of the world, and its life — 
and our ages are dead ! 
Weak is the hand of the race, and its 
courage but faint, 
Slow is the spirit creative that once 
was so bold ; 
All our achievement a shadow, that 
echoes complaint 
Since we are lorn of the grace and 
the glory of old ! 



No more in brief, inconstant flashes, 
We hail the fitful dawn of truth, 

Our feet on many an Empire's ashes, 
We feel the world's eternal youth. 

On firmer than the old foundations 
We base the promise of our fate, 



And take the wr°ck of crumbled na* 
tions 
To build an everlasting State. 
Rome, March 26, 1868. 



PANDORA. 

Italy, loved of the sun, 

Wooed of the sweet winds and wed bj 

the sea, 
When, since the nations begun, 
Was other inheritance like unto thee' 1 

Splendors of sunshine and snows 
Flash from thy peaks to thy bath in the 

brine ; 
Thine are the daisy and rose, 
The grace of the palm and the strength 

of the pine : 

Orchard and harvested plain ; 

Lakes, by the touch of the tempest un- 
stirred ; 

Dells where the Dryads remain, 

And mountains that rise to a music un- 
heard ? 

Generous gods, at thy birth, 

Heaped on thy cradle with prodigal 

hand 
Gifts, and the darling of earth 
Art thou, and wast ever, ravishing 

land ! 

Strength from the Thunderer came, 
Pride from the goddess that governs his 

board ; 
While, in his forges of flame, 
Hephaestus attempered thine armor and 

sword. 

Lo ! Aphrodite her zone, 
Winning all love to thy loveliness, gave ; 
Leaving her Paphian throne 
To breathe on thy mountains and 
brighten thy wave. 

Bacchus the urns of his wine 

Gave, and the festivals crowning thy 

toil ; 
Ceres, the mother divine, 
Bestowed on thee bounties of corn and 

of oil. 

Phcebus the songs that inspire, 
Caught from the airs of Olympus, con 
ferred ; 



204 



LYRICS. 



Hermes, the sweetness and fire 
That pierce in the charm of the eloquent 
word. 

So were thy graces complete ; 

Yea, and, though ruined, they fascinate 

now : 
Beautiful still are thy feet, 
And girt with the gold of lost lordship 

thy brow. 

SORRENTO. 



The gods are gone, the temples over- 
thrown, 
The storms of time the very rocks 
have shaken : 
The Past is mute, save where some 
mouldy stone 
Speaks to confuse, like speech by age 
overtaken. 
The pomp that crowned the wind- 
ing shore 
Has fled for evermore : 
Its old magnificence shall never re- 
awaken. 

ii. 

Where once, against the Grecian ships 
arrayed, 
The Oscan warriors saw their javelins 
hurtle, 
The farmer prunes his olives, and the 
maid 
Trips down the lanes in flashing vest 
and kirtle : 
The everlasting laurel now 
Forgets Apollo's brow, 
And, dedicate no more to Venus, 
blooms the myrtle. 



fet still, as long ago, when this high 
coast 
Phoenician strangers saw, and flying 
Dardans, 
The bounteous earth fulfils her ancient 
boast 
In mellow fields which Winter never 
hardens ; 
And daisy, lavender, and rose 
Perpetual buds unclose, 
To flood with endless balm the tiers 
of hanging gardens. 



From immemorial rocks the daffodil 
Beckons with scented stars, an un 
reached wonder : 
On sunny banks their wine the hya- 
cinths spill, 
And self-betra} r ing violets bloom there- 
under; 
While near and threaten ing, dux* 

and deep, 
The wave assails the steep, 
Or booms in hollow caves with sound 
of smothered thunder. 



Here Nature, dropping once her ordered 

plan, 
' Fashioned all lovely things that most 

might please her — 
A playground guarded from the greed 
of man, 
The childish gauds, wherewith he 
would appease her: 
Her sweetest air, her softest wave 
Reluctantly she gave 
To grace the wealth of Rome, to heal 
the languid Caesar. 



She stationed there Vesuvius, to be 
Contrasted horror to her idyl ten- 
der : 
Across the azure pavement of the sea 
She raised a cape for Baiase's marble 
splendor ; 
And westward, on the circling zone, 
To front the seas unknown, 
She planted Capri's couchant lion to 
defend her. 



VII. 

A mother kind, she doth but tanta' 
lize : 
Nor from her secret gardens will she 
spurn us. 
The Roman, casting hitherward his 
eyes, 
Forgot his Sybaris beside Volturnus — 
Forgot the streams and sylvan 

charms 
That decked his Sabine farms, 
And orchards on the slopes that sink 
to still Avernus. 



THE TWO GREETINGS. 



205 



VIII. 

Here was his substance wasted : here he 
lost 
The marrow that subdued the world, 
in leisure ; 
Counting no days that weie not feasts, 
no cost 
Too dear to purchase finer forms of 
pleasure ; 
Yet, while for him stood still the sun, 
The restless world rolled on, 
And shook from off its skirts Caesar and 
Caesar's treasure. 



Less than he sought will we : a moon of 
peace, 
To feed the mind on Fancy's airy diet ; 
Soft airs that come like memories of 
Greece, 
Nights that renew the old Phoenician 
quiet : 
Escape from yonder burning crest 
That stirs with new unrest, 
And in its lava-streams keeps hot the 
endless riot. 



Here, from the wars of Gaul, the strife 
of Eome, 
May we, meek citizens, a summer 
screen us : 
Here find with milder Earth a perfect 
home, 
Once, ere she puts profounder rest 
between us : 
Here break the sacred laurel bough 
Still for Apollo's brow, 
And bind the myrtle buds to crown a 
purer Venus. 



THE TWO GREETINGS. 
I. — Salve ! 

Scarce from the void of shadows taken, 
We hail thine opening eyelids, boy! 

Be welcome to the world ! Awaken 
To strength and beauty, and to joy ! 

Within those orbs of empty wonder 
Let life its starry fires increase, 

i\nd curve those tender lips asunder 
With faintest smiles of baby peace . 



Sealed in their buds, the beauteous senses 
Shall gladden thee as they unfold : 

With soft allurements, stern defences, 
Thy riper being they shall mould. 

Far-eyed desires and hopes unbounded 
Within thy narrow nest are furled : 

Behold, for thee how fair is rounded 
The circle of the sunlit world ! 

The oceans and the winds invite thee, 
The peopled lands thy coming wait : 

No wreck nor storm shall long affright 
thee, 
For all are parts of thine estate. 

Advance to every triumph wrested 
By plough and pencil, pen and sword, 

For, with thy robes of action vested, 
Though slaves be others, thou art 
lord! 

Thy breath be love, thy growth be duty 
To end in peace as they began : 

Pre-human in thy helpless beauty, 
Become more beautiful, as Man ! 



n. — Vale ! 

Now fold thy rich experience round 
thee, 
To shield therewith the sinking heart : 
The sunset-gold of Day hath crowned 
thee : 
The dark gate opens, — so depart ! 

What growth the leafy years could ren- 
der 

No more into its bud returns ; 
It clothes thee still with faded splendor 

As banks are clothed by autumn ferns. 

All spring could dream or summer fash 
ion, 

If ripened, or untimely cast, 
The harvest of thy toil and passion — 

Thy sheaf of life — is bound at last. 

What scattered ears thy field encloses, 
What tares unweeded, now behold ; 

And here the poppies, there the roses, 
Send withered fragrance through the 
gold. 

Lo ! as thou earnest, so thou goest, 
F"om bright Unknown to bright Un 
known. 



206 



LYRICS. 



Save that the light thou forward throw- 
est, 
Was fainter then behind thee thrown. 

Again be glad ! through tears and laugh- 
ter, 
And deed and failure, thou art strong : 
Thy Here presages thy Hereafter, 
And neither sphere shall do thee 
wrong ! 

To mother-breasts of nurture fonder 
Go, child ! — once more in beauty 
young : 

And hear our Vale! echoed yonder 
As Salve ! in a sweeter tongue ! 



TO MY DAUGHTER. 

Learn to live, and live to learn, 
Ignorance like a fire doth burn, 
Little tasks make large return. 

In thy labors patient be, 
Afterward, released and free, 
Nature will be bright to thee. 

Toil, when willing, groweth less ; 
" Always play " may seem to bless, 
Yet the end is weariness. 

Live to learn, and learn to live, 
Only this content can give ; 
Reckless joys are fugitive ! 



A LOVER'S TEST. 

I sat to-day beneath the pine 
And saw the long lake shine. 

The wind was weary, and the day 
Sank languidly away 

Behind the forest's purple rim : 
The sun was fair for me, I lived for him ! 

I did not miss you. All was sweet, 
Sky, earth, and soul complete 

In harmony, which could afford 
No more, nor spoil the chord. 

Oould I be blest, and you afar, 
*Vere other I, or you, than what we are ? 

The rifted silver of the night 
Rained down a strange delight ; 

The moon's moist beams on meadows 
made 
Pale bars athwart the shade, 



And murmurs crept from tree to tree, 
Mysterious whispers — not from yon to 
me! 

I stirred the embers, roused the brand 
And mused : on either hand 

The pedigree of human thought 
Sang, censured, cheered, or taught. 

Pausing at each Titanic line, 
I caught no echo of your soul to mine ! 

At last, when life recast its form 

To passive rest and warm, 
Ere the soft, lingering senses cease 

In sleep's half-conscious peace, 
The wish I might have fashioned died 
In dreams that never brought you to my 
side ! 

Earewell ! my nature's highest stress 

Mine equal shall possess. 
'T is easier to renounce, or wait, 

Haply, the perfect fate. 
My coldness is the haughty fire 
That naught consumes except its full 
desire ! 



A FRIEND'S GREETING. 

TO J. G. WHITTIER, FOR HIS SEVEN- 
TIETH BIRTHDAY. 

Snow-bound for earth, but summer- 
souled for thee, 
Thy natal morning shines : 
Hail, Friend and Poet. Give thy hand 
to me, 
And let me read its lines ! 

For skilled in Fancy's palmistry am I, 
When years have set their crown ; 

When Life gives light to read its secrets 
by, 
And deed explains renown. 

So, looking backward from thy seven 
tieth year 
On service grand and free, 
The pictures of thy spirit's Past are 
clear, 
And each interprets thee. 

I see thee, first, on hills our Aryan sire? 

In Time's lost morning knew, 
Kindb'ng, as priest, the lonely altar-firei 

That from Earth's darkness grew. 



PEACH-BLOSSOM. 



207 



f hen, wise with secrets oi Chaldaean 
lore, 

In high Akkadian fane ; 
Or pacing slow by Egypt's river-shoi'e, 

In Thothmes' glorious reign. 

[ hear thee, wroth with all iniquities 
That Judah's kings betrayed, 

Preach from Ain-Jidi's rock thy God's 
decrees, 
Or Mamre's terebinth shade. 

And, ah! — most piteous vision of the 
Past, 

Drawn by thy being's law, 
I see thee, martyr, in the arena cast, 

Beneath the lion's paw. 

Yet, afterwards, how rang thy sword 

upon 

The Paynim helm and shield ! 

How shone with Godfrey, and at Aska- 

lon, 

Thy white plume o'er the field ! 

Strange contradiction ! — where the 
sand-waves spread 
The boundless desert sea, 
The Bedouin spearmen found their des- 
tined head, 
Their dark-eyed chief — in thee ! 

\nd thou wert friar in Cluny's saintly 
cell, 
And Skald by Norway's foam, 
Ere fate of Poet fixed thy soul, to 
dwell 
In this New England home. 

Here art thou Poet, — more than warrior, 
priest ; 

And here thy quiet years 
Yield more to us than sacrifice or feast, 

Or clash of swords or spears. 

The faith that lifts, the courage that 
sustains, 
These thou wert sent to teach : 
Hot blood of battle, beating in thy 
veins, 
Is turned to gentle speech. 

Not less, but more, than others hast thou 
striven ; 
Thy victories remain : 
The scars of ancient hate, long since for- 
given, 
Have lost their power to pain 



Apostle pure of Freedom and of Right, 
Thou had'st thy one reward : 

Thy prayers were heard, and flashed 
upon thy sight 
The Coming of the Lord ! 

Now, sheathed in myrtle of thy tender 
songs, 
Slumbers the blade of truth ; 
But Age's wisdom, crowning thee, pro 
longs 
The eager hope of Youth ! 

Another line upon thy hand I trace, 

All destinies above : 
Men know thee most as one that love* 
his race, 

And bless thee with their love ' 



PEACH-BLOSSOM. 



Nightly the hoar-frost freezes 
The young grass of the field, 
Nor yet have blander breezes 

The buds of the oak unsealed : 
Not yet pours out the pine 
His airy resinous wine ; 
But over the southern slope, 
In the heat and hurry of hope, 
The wands of the peach- tree first 
Into rosy beauty burst : 
A breath, and the sweet buds ope ! 
A day, and the orchards bare, 
Like maids in haste to be fair, 
Lightly themselves adorn 
With a scarf the Spring at the door 
Has sportively flung before, 
Or a stranded cloud of the morn ! 



What spirit of Persia cometh 

And saith to the buds, " Unclose ! ' 

Ere ever the first bee hummeth, 
Or woodland wild flower blows ? 

What prescient soul in the sod 

Garlands each barren rod 

With fringes of bloom that speak 

Of the baby's tender breast, 

And the boy's pure lip unpre&sed, 

And the pink of the maiden's cheek ! 

The swift, keen Orient so 

Prophesies as of old, 

While the apple's blood is cold, 

Remembering the snow. 



208 



LYRICS. 



in. 

Afar, through the mellow hazes 
Where the dreams of June are 
The hills, in their vanishing mazes 

Carry the flush, and fade ! 
Southward they fall, and reach 
To the bay and the ocean beach, 
Where the soft, half-Syrian air 
Blows from the Chesapeake's 
Inlets and coves and creeks 
On the fields of Delaware ! 
And the rosy lakes of flowers, 
That here alone are ours, 
Spread into seas that pour 
Billow and spray of pink 
Even to the blue wave's brink, 
All down the Eastern Shore ! 



Pain, Doubt, and Death are over ! 

Who thinks, to-day, of toil ? 
The fields are certain of clover, 

The gardens of wine and oil. 
What though the sap of the North 
Drowsily peereth forth 
In the orchards, and still delays 1 
The peach and the poet know 
Under the chill the glow, 
And the token of golden days ! 



What fool, to-day, would rather 

In wintry memories dwell 1 
What miser reach to gather 

The fruit these boughs foretell 1 
No, no ! — the heart has room 
For present joy alone, 
Light shed and sweetness blown, 
For odor and color and bloom ! 
As the earth in the shining sky, 
Our lives in their own bliss lie ; 
Whatever is taught or told, 
However men moan and sigh, 
Love never shall grow cold, 
And Life shall never die ! 



ASSYRIAN NIGHT-SONG. 



There is naught, on either hand, 
But the moon upon the sand 
Pale and glimmering, far and dim, 
To the Desert's utmost rim, 
Flows the inundating light 



Over all the lands of Night. 
Bel, the burning lord, has fled : 
In her blue, uncurtained bed, 
Ishtar, bending from above, 
Seeks her Babylonian love. 
Silver-browed, forever fair, 
Goddess of the dusky hair 
And the jewel-sprinkled breast, 
Give me love, or give me rest ! 



I have wandered lone and far 
As the ship of Izdubar, 
When the gathered waters rose 
High on Nizir's mountain snows, 
Drifting where the torrent sped 
Over life and glory dead. 
Hear me now ! I stretch my hand* 
From the moon-sea of the sands 
Unto thee, or any star 
That was guide to Izdubar ! 
Where the bulls with kingly beads 
Guard the way to palace-beds, 
Once I saw a woman go, 
Swift as air and soft as snow, 
Making swan and cypress one, 
Steel and honey, night and sun, — 
Once of death I knew the sting: 
Beauty queen — and I not king ! 



Where the Hanging Gardens soar 
Over the Euphrates' shore, 
And from palm and clinging vine 
Lift aloft the Median pine, 
Torches flame and wine is poured, 
And the child of Bel is lord ! 
I am here alone with thee, 
Ishtar, daughter of the Sea, 
Who of woven dew and air 
Spread'st an ocean, phantom-fair, 
With a slow pulse beating through 
Wave of air and foam of dew. 
As I stand, I seem to drift 
With its noiseless fall and lift, 
While a veil of lightest lawn, 
Or a floating form withdrawn, 
Or a glimpse of beckoning hands 
Gleams and fades above the sands. 



Day, that mixed my soul with men, 
Has it died forever, then ? 
Is there any world but this ? 
If the god deny his bliss, 



GABRIEL. 



209 



And the goddess cannot give, 
What a^e gods, that men should live ? 
Lo ! the sand beneath my feet 
Hoards the bounty of its heat, 
And thy silver cheeks I see 
Bright with him who burns for thee. 
Give the airy semblance form, 
Bid the dream be near and warm ; 
Or, if dreams but flash and die 
As a mock to heart and eye, 
Then descend thyself, and be, 
Ishtar, sacred bride to me ! 



MY PROLOGUE. 



If heat of youth, 't is heat suppressed 
That fills my breast : 

The childhood of a voiceless lyre 
Preserves my fire. 

I chanted not while I was young ; 

But ere age chill, I liberate my tongue ! 



Apart from stormy ways of men, 

Maine's loneliest glen 
Held me as banished, and unheard 

I saved my word : 
I would not know the bitter taste 
Of the crude fame which falls to them 
that haste. 



On each impatient year I tossed 

A holocaust 
Of effort, ashes ere it burned, 

And justly spurned. 
If now I own maturer days, 
I know not : dust to me is passing praise. 

IT. 

But out of life arises song, 

Clear, vital, strong, — 
Tho speech men pray for when they 
pine, 

The speech divine 
No other can interpret : grand 
And permanent as time and race and 
land. 



I dreamed I spake it : do I dream, 
In pride supreme, 
14 



Or, like late lovers, found the bride 

Their youth denied, 
Is this my stinted passion's flow ? 
It well may be ; and they that read will 
know. 



GABRIEL. 



Once let the Angel blow ! — 

A peal from the parted heaven, 

The first of seven ! 

For the time is come that was foretold 

So long ago ! 

As the avalanche gathers, huge and cold, 

From the down of the harmless snow, 

The years and the ages gather and 

hang 
Till the day when the word is spoken : 
When they that dwell in the end of 

time 
Are smitten alike for the early crime 
As the vials of wrath are broken ! 



II. 

Yea, the time hath come ; 

Though Earth is rich, her children are 

dumb! 
Ye cry : Beware 
Of the dancer's floating hair, 
And the cymbal's clash, and the sound 

of pipe and drum ! 
But the Prophet cries : Beware 
Of the hymn unheard, the unanswered 

prayer ; 
For ignorance is past, 
And knowledge comes at last, 
And the burden it brings to you ho^r 

can ye bear ? 



Again let the Angel blow ! 

The seals are loosened that seemed to 

bind 
The Future's bliss and woe ! 
For a shrinking soul, an uncertain mind. 
For eyes that see, but are growing blind, 
Your landmarks fade and change : 
The colors to-day you borrow 
Take another hue to-morrow ; 
The forms of your faith are wild and 

strange ! 
Walking, you stagger to and fro : 
So, let the Angel blow ! 



210 



LYRICS. 



Ah, shal] the Angel blow ? 
Something must have remained, 
Something fresh and unstained, 
Sprung from the common soil where the 

virtues grow : 
Nay, it is not so ! 

Art succumbs to the coarser sense, 
Greed o'ercometh sweet abstinence ; 
Of vices young men talk, 
In scarlet your women walk, 
And the soul of honor that made you 

proud, 
The loftier grace your lives avowed, 
Are a passive corpse and a tattered 

shroud : 
What you forget, can your children 

know ? 
So, let the Angel blow ! 



Yes, let the Angel blow ! 

A peal from the parted heaven, 

The first of seven ; — 

The warning, not yet the sign, of woe ! 

That men arise 

And look about them with wakened eyes, 

Behold on their garments the dust and 

slime, 
Refrain, forbear, 

Accept the weight of a nobler care 
And take reproach from the fallen time ! 

THE LOST CARYATID. 

When over Salamis stands Homer's 
moon, 

And from the wasted wave 
Of spent Ilissus falls no liquid croon, 

But tears that wet a grave ; 
fVhen on Pentelicus the quarried scars 

Are dusk as dying stars ; 

When Attica's gray olives blend and 
gleam 
Like sea-mists o'er the plain ; 
And, islanded in Time's eternal stream, 

Only Athene's fane 
Shines forth, when every light of heaven 
must kiss 
Art's one Acropolis : 

Then, unto him — the modern Hellenes 
say — 
In whom old dreams survive ; 



Fcr whom the force of each imnurta 
day 

Earth knew, is yet alive — 
To him who waits and listens there alone, 

Rises a Btrange, sweet moan. 

The voice of broken marble, the com 
plaint 
Of beauty nigh despair, 
In the thick wilderness of years grown 
faint 
For lack of rite and prayer, 
Since all perfection, making her sublime, 
Provoked her evil time. 

It floats around the Panathenaic frieze 

Till every triglyph sings, 
While up from Dionyskm chairs the 

breeze 
- A murmurous answer brings ; 
But most it gathers voice, and rests 
upon 
The spoiled Erechtheion. 

There the white architrave that fronts 
the east 
Lightly five sisters hold 
As blossom-baskets at a bridal feast, 

Or jars of Samian gold : 
Each proud and pure, and still a glorious 
wraith 
Of Beauty wed to Faith ! 

The sixth has vanished, from the service 
torn, 
Long since, by savage hands, 
And keeps dumb vigil where the mist} 
morn 
Creeps o'er Cimmerian lands ; 
While they, in pallid lip and dew-damp 
cheek 
Lament, and seem to speak : 

" Where art thou, sister ? Thee, the 
sparkling day, 
The moonbeam, finds no more, 
Save in some hall where darker gods 
decay 
On some barbarian shore ! 
Ah, where, beyond Poseidon's bitter 
foam, 
Kear'st thou the voice of home ? 

" Where, when, as now, the night's my» 
terious hush 

Our ancient life renews, 
Or when the tops of Corydallus flush 

O'er the departing dews — 



THE VILLAGE STORK. 



211 



^nd lovely Attica, in silver spread, 
Forgets that she is dead — 

* Bidest thou in exile ? Speak ! Our 
being cold, — 
Thou knowest ! — yet retains 
The thrill of choric strophes, flutes of 
gold, < 
And all victorious strains. 
Dark is the world that knows not us 
divine ; 
But, ah ! what fate is thine 1 " 

Lo ! from afar, across unmeasured seas 
An answering sound is blown, 

As when some wind-god's ghost moves 
Thessaly's 
Tall pines to solemn tone ; 

Yet happy, as a sole Arcadian flute, 
When harvest-fields are mute. 

" I hear ye, sisters ! " — thus the answer 
falls: 
" My marble sends reply 
To you, who guard the fair, immortal 
halls 
Beneath our ancient sky ; 
Yet give no sadder echo to your moan, — 
I am not here alone ! 

" Dark walls surround me ; that keen 
azure fire 
Of day and night is fled ; 
Yet worship clothes me, and the old de- 
sire 
That round your feet is dead : 
I see glad eyes, I feel fresh spirits 
burn, 
And beauteous faith return ! 

What idle hand or scornful set me 

here 
I heed no longer now ; 
Men know my loveliness, and, half in 
fear, 
Touch mine insulted brow : 
In me the glory of the gods discrowned 
The race again has found. 

' More proudly, sisters, bear your archi- 
trave 
Without me, whom ye miss ! 
Truth finds her second birthplace, not 
her grave, 
On our Acropolis ! 
\nd children here, while there but aliens 
roam, 
Shall build once more our home." 



THE VILLAGE STORK. 

The old Hercynian Forest sent 

His weather on the plain ; 
Wahlwinkel's orchards writhed and bent 

In whirls of wind and rain. 
Within her nest, upon the roof, 
For generations tempest-proof, 
Wahlwinkel's stork with her young ones 

lay, 
When the hand of the hurricane tore 
away 
The house and the home that held 
them. 

The storm passed by ; the happy trees 

Stood up, and kissed the sun ; 
And from the birds new melodies 

Came fluting one by one. 
The stork, upon the paths below, 
Went sadly pacing to and fro, 
With dripping plumes and head de- 



For she thought of the spoiled ancestral 
nest, 
And the old, inherited honor. 

" Behold her now ! " the throstle sang 

From out the linden tree ; 
" Who knows from what a line she 
sprang, 

Beyond the unknown sea 1 " 
" If she could sing, perchance her tale 
Might move us," chirruped the nightin 

gale. 
" Sing 1 She can only rattle and creak ! " 
Whistled the bullfinch, with silver beak, 

Within the wires of his prison. 

And all birds there, or loud or low, 
Were one in scoff and scorn ; 

But still the stork paced to and fro, 
As utterly forlorn. 

Then suddenly, in turn of eye, 

She saw a poet passing by, 

And the thought in his brain was an 
arrow of fire, 

That pierced her with passion, and pride, 
and ire, 
And gave her a voice to answer. 

She raised her head and shook her wings, 
And faced the piping crowd. 

" Best service," said she, " never sings. 
True honor is not loud. 

My kindred carol not, nor boast ; 

Yet we a r e loved and welconc^d most, 



212 



LYRICS. 



And our ancient race is dearest and first, 
And the hand that hurts us is held ac- 
cursed 
In every home of Wahlwinkel ! 

' Beneath a sky forever fair, 

And with a summer sod, 
The land I come from smiles — and 
there 
My brother was a god ! 
My nest upon a temple stands 
And sees the shine of desert lands ; 
And the palm and the tamarisk cool 

my wings, 
When the blazing beam of the noonday 
stings, 
And I drink from the holy river ! 

' There I am sacred, even as here ; 

Yet dare I not be lost, 
When meads are bright, hearts full of 
cheer, 

At blithesome Pentecost. 
Then from mine obelisk I depart, 
Guided by something in my heart, 
And sweep in a line over Libyan sands 
To the blossoming olives of Grecian lands, 

And rest on the Cretan Ida ! 

" Parnassus sees me as I sail ; 

I cross the Adrian brine ; 
The distant summits fade and fail, 

Dalmatian, Apennine ; 
The Alpine snows beneath me gleam, 
I see the yellow Danube stream ; 
But I hasten on till my spent wings fall 
Where I bring a blessing to each and all, 

And babes to the wives of Wahlwin- 
kel ! " 

She drooped her head and spake no 
more ; 

The birds on either hand 
Bang louder, lustier than before — 

They could not understand. 
Thus mused the stork, with snap of be?.k : 
'' Better be silent, than so speak ! 
Highest being can never be taught : 
They hare their voices, I my thought ; 

And they were never in Egypt ! " 



SONNET. 

Who, harnessed in his mail of Self, de- 
mands 

To be men's master and their sovran 
guide ? — 



Proclaims his place, and by sole right of 

pride 
A candidate for love and reverence 

stands, 
As if the power within his empty handa 
Had fallen from the sky, with all beside, 
So oft to longing and to toil denied, 
That makes the leaders and the lords ol 

lands ? 
He who would lead must first himseli 

be led ; 
Who would be loved be capable of love 
Beyond the utmost he receives; who 

claims 
The rod of power must first have bowed 

his head, 
And, being honored, honor what 's above : 
This know the men who leave the world 

their names. 



FROM THE NORTH. 

Once more without you ! Sighing, Dear, 

once more, 
For all the sweet, accustomed ministries 
Of wife and mother : not as when the 

seas 
That parted us my tender message bore 
From the gray olives of the Cretan shore 
To those that hide the broken Phidian 

frieze 
Of our Athenian home, — but far de- 
grees, 
Wide plains, great forests, part us now. 

My door 
Looks on the rushing Neva, cold and 

clear : 
The swelling domes in hovering splendor 

lie 
Like golden bubbles, eager to be gone ; 
But the chill crystal of the atmosphere 
Withholds them, and along the northern 

sky 
The amber midnight smiles in dreams 

of dawn. 



A WEDDING SONNET. 

TO T. B. A. AND L. TV. 

Sad Autumn, drop thy weedy crown 

forlorn, 
Put off thy cloak of cloud, thy scarf 01 

mist, 
And dress in gauzy gold and amethyst 
A day benign, of sunniest influence born, 



CHRISTMAS SONNETS. 



213 



As ma/ befit a Poet's marriage morn ! 
Give buds another dream, another tryst 
To loving hearts, and print on lips un- 

kissed 
Betrothal-kisses, laughing Spring to 

scorn ! 
Yet, if unfriendly thou, with sullen skies, 
Bleak rains, or moaning winds, dost 

menace wrong, 
Here art thou foiled : a bridal sun shall 

rise 
And bridal emblems unto these belong. 
Round her the sunshine of her beauty 

lies, 
And breathes round him the spring-time 

of his song ! 



CHRISTMAS SONNETS. 
I. 

TO G. H. B. 

If that my hand, like yours, dear 

George, were skilled 
To win from Wordsworth's scanty plot 

of ground 
A shining harvest, such as you have 

found, 
Where strength and grace, fraternally 

fulfilled, 
As in those sheaves whose rustling 

glories gild 
The hills of August, folded are, and 

bound ; 
So would I draw my loving tillage round 
Its borders, bid the gentlest rains be 

spilled, 
The goldenest suns its happy growth 

Compel, 
knd bind for you the ripe, redundant 

grain : 
But, ah ! you stand amid your songful 

sheaves, 
So ri< h, this weed-born flower you might 

disdain, 
Pave that of me its growth and color tell, 
And of my love some perfume haunt 

its leaves ! 



IT. 



TO R. II. S. 

The years go by, old Friend ! Each, 

as it fleets, 
Moves to a farther, fairer realm, the time 



When first we twain the pleasant land 

of Rhyme 
Discovered, choosing side by side our 

seats 
Below our separate Gods : in midnight 

streets 
And haunted attics flattered by the 

chime 
Of silver words, and, fed by faith svblime, 
I Shelley's mantle wore, you that of 

Keats, — 
Dear dreams, that marked the Muse's 

childhood then, 
Nor now to be disowned ! The years go 

by; 
The clear-eyed Goddess flatters us no 

more ; 
And yet, I think, in soberer aims of men, 
And Song's severer service, you and I 
Are nearer, dearer, faithfuller than be- 
fore. 

III. 

TO E. C. S. 

When days were long, and o'er that 

farm of mine, 
Green Cedarcroft, the summer breezes 

blew, 
And from the walnut shadows I and you, 
Dear Edmund, saw the red lawn-roses 

shine, 
Or followed our idyllic Brandywine 
Through meadows flecked with many a 

flowery hue, 
To where with wild Arcadian pomp I 

drew 
Your Bacchic march among the startled 

kine, 
You gave me, linked with old Maeonides, 
Your loving sonnet, — record dear and 

true 
Of days as dear : and now, when suns 

are brief, 
And Christmas snows are on the naked 

trees, 
I give you this, — a withered winter leaf, 
Yet with your blossom from one root it 

grew. 

IV. 

TO J. L. G. 

If I could touch with Petrarch's pen 

this strain 
Of graver song, and shape to liquid floig 



214 



LYRICS. 



Of soft Ital ian syllables the glow 
That warms my heart, my tribute were 

not vain : 
But how shall I such measured sweet- 
ness gain 
As may your golden nature fitly show, 
And with the heart-light shine, that fills 

you so, 
It pales the graces of the cultured brain 1 
Long have I known, Love better is than 

Fame, 
And Love hath crowned you : yet if 

any bay 
Cling to my chaplet when the years 

have flea, 
And I am dust, may this which bears 

your name 
Cling latest, that my love's result shall 

stay 
When that which mine ambition wrought 

is dead ! 



A STATESMAN. 

He knew the mask of principle to wear, 
And power accept while seeming to de- 
cline : 
So cunningly he wrought, with tools so 

fine, 
Setting his courses with so frank an air, 
(Yet most secure when seeming most to 

dare, ) 
He- did deceive us all : with mien benign 
His malice smiled, his cowardice the sign 
Of courage took, his selfishness grew 

fair, 
So deftly could his foiled ambition show 
As modest acquiescence. Now, 't is 

clear 
What man he is, — how false his high 

report ; 
Mean to the friend, caressing to the foe ; 
Plotting the mischief whicb he feigns to 

fear : 
Chief Eunuch, were but ours the Sul- 
tan's court ! 



A PRESIDENT. 

Thou, whom the slave-lords with con- 
temptuous feet 

Bpurned in their double insult — taunt- 
ing thee, 

As born of Labor and of Poverty, 

With scorn in thine abasement most un- 
meet. 



How dost thou find their false embrace* 

sweet ! 
How, so insanely blind, thou canst not 

see 
What shameless scoffs in their applauses 

be? 
So took the drunken slave, in Roman 

street, 
The homage of his master's mocking 

mirth : 
And thou, who mightst have lifted up 

thy race, 
Dost rather take from Toil its dignity, 
And unto ignorance addest fresh dis- 
grace. 
But we shall sweep that^ system from 

the earth 
Which gave us Treason, war, and lastly 

— thee ! 



SONNET. 

Where should the Poet's home and 

household be ? 
Beneath what skies, in what untroubled 

air 
Sings he for very joy of songs so fair 
That in their steadfast laws he most is 

free? 
In woods re»iote, where darkly tree on 

tree 
Let fall their curtained shadows, to en- 
snare 
His dreams, or hid in Fancy's happiest 

lair, — 
Some laughing island of the stormless 

sea ? 
Ah, never such to him their welcome 

gave ! 
But, flattered by the gods in finer scorn, 
He drifts upon the world's unresting 

wave, 
As drifts a sea-flower, by the tempest 

torn 
From sheltered porches of the coral cave 
Where it expands, of calm and silence 

born. 



TO MARIE. 

WITH A COPY OF THE TRANSLATION OF 
FAUST. 

This plant, it may be, grew from vigo* 

ous seed, 
Within the field of study set by Song ; 



TO MARIE. 



ili 



Seat from its sprouting germ, perchance, 
a throng 

Of roots even to that depth where pas- 
sions breed ; 

Chose its own time, and of its place took 
heed ; 

Sucked fittest nutriment to make it 
strong : — 

But you from every wayward season's 
wrong 



Did guard it, showering, at its changing 

need, 
Or dew of sympathy, or summer glow 
Of apprehension of the finer toil, 
And gave it, so, the nature that endures. 
Our secret this, the world can never 

know : 
You were the breeze and sunshine, I the 

soil : 
The form is mine, color and odor yours 1 



ODES. 



ODES. 



GETTYSBURG ODE. 

PLICATION OP THE NATIONAL MONUMENT, JULT 1, 1869 



After the eyes that looked, the lips that spake 
Here, from the shadows of impending death, 

Those words of solemn breath, 

"What voice may fitly break 
The silence, doubly hallowed, left by him ? 
We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim, 

And, as a Nation's litany, repeat 
The phrase his martyrdom hath made complete, 
Noble as then, but now more sadly-sweet : 
: Let us, the Living, rather dedicate 
Ourselves to the unfinished work, which they 
Thus far advanced so nobly on its way, 

And save the perilled State ! 
Let us, upon this field where they, the brave, 
Their last full measure of devotion gave, 
Highly resolve they have not died in vain ! — 
That, under God, the Nation's later birth 

Of Ereedom, and the people's gain 
Of their own Sovereignty, shall never wane 
And perish from the circle of the earth ! " 
Erom such a perfect text, shall Song aspire 

To light her faded fire, 
And into wandering music turn 
Its virtue, simple, sorrowful, and stern ? 
His voice all elegies anticipated ; 

Eor, whatsoe'er the strain, 

"We hear that one refrain : 
1 We consecrate ourselves to them, the Consecrated 5 



After the thunder-storm our heaven is blue : 
Ear-off, along the borders of the sky, 
In silver folds the clouds of battle lie, 

With soft, consoling sunlight shining through; 

And round the sweeping circle of your hills 
The crashing cannon-thrills 

Have faded from the memory of the air ; 

And Summer pours from unexhausted fountains 
Her bliss on yonder mountains : 

The camps are tenandess, the breastworks bare : 



220 ODES. 



Earth keeps no stain where hero-blood was poured . 
The hornets, humming on their wings of lead, 
Have ceased to sting, their angry swarms are dead, 

And, harmless in its scabbard, rustf the sword ! 



Oh, not till now, — Oh, now we dare, at last, 

To give our heroes fitting consecration ! 
Not till the soreness of the strife is past, 

And Peace hath comforted the weary Nation ! 
So long her sad, indignant spirit held 
One keen regret, one throb of pain, unquelled ; 
So long the land about her feet was waste, 

The ashes of the burning lay upon her, 
We stood beside their graves with brows abased, 

Waiting the purer mood to do them honor ! 
They, through the flames of this dread holocaust, 
The patriot's wrath, the soldier's ardor, lost : 
They sit above us and above our passion, 

Disparaged even by our human tears, — 
Beholding truth our race, perchance, may fashion 

In the slow process of the creeping years. 
We saw the still reproof upon their faces ; 
We heard them whisper from the shining spaces : 
' To-day ye grieve : come not to us with sorrow ! 
Wait for the glad, the reconciled To-morrow ! 
Your grief but clouds the ether where we dwell ; 

Your anger keeps your souls and ours apart : 
But come with neace and pardon, all is well ! 

And come with love, we touch you, heart to heart ! 

IV. 

Immortal Brothers, we have heard ! 
Our lips declare the reconciling word : 
For Battle taught, that set us face to face, 

The stubborn temper of the race, 
And both, from fields no longer alien, come, 

To grander action equally invited, — 
Marshalled by Learning's trump, by Labor's drum, 

In strife that purifies and makes united ! 
We force to build, the powers that would destri y ; 
The muscles, hardened by the sabre's grasp, 

Now give our hands a firmer clasp : 
We bring not grief to you, but solemn joy ! 

And, feeling you so near, 
Look forward with your eyes, divinely clear, 
To some sublimely-perfect, sacred year, 
When sons of fathers whom ye overcame 
Forget in mutual pride the partial blame, 
And join with us, to set the final crown 

Upon your dear renown, — 
The People's Union in heart and name J 



v. 

And yet, ye Dead ! — and yet 
Onr clouded natures cling to one regret 



GETTYSBURG ODE 221 

We are not all resigned 
To yield, with even mind, 
Our scarcely-risen stars, that here untimely set. 
We needs must think of History that waits 

For lines that live but in their proud beginning, - 
Arrested promises and cheated fates, — 

Youth's boundless venture and its single winning ! 
We see the ghosts of deeds they might have done, 

The phantom homes that beaconed their endeavor ; 
The seeds of countless lives, in them begun, 
That might have multipled for us forever ! 
We grudge the better strain of men 
That proved itself, and was extinguished then — 
The field, with strength and hope so thickly sown, 
Wherefrom no other harvest shall be mown : 
For all the land, within its clasping seas, 

Is poorer now in bravery and beauty, 
Such wealth of manly loves and energies 
Was given to teach us all the freeman's sacred duty ! 



Again 't is they, the Dead, 
By whom our hearts are comforted. 
Deep as the land-blown murmurs of the waves 
The answer cometh from a thousand graves : 

" Not so ! we are not orphaned of our fate ! 
Though life were warmest, and though love were sweetest, 
We still have portion in their best estate : 

Our fortune is the fairest and completest ' 
Our homes are everywhere : our loves are set 

In hearts of man and woman, sweet and vernal : 
Courage and Truth, the children we beget, 

Unmixed of baser earth, shall be eternal. 
A finer spirit in the blood shall give 
The token of the lines wherein we live, — 
Unselfish force, unconscious nobleness 

That in the shocks of fortune stands unshaken, — 
The hopes that in their very being bless, 

The aspirations that to deeds awaken ! 
If aught of finer virtue ye allow 

To us, that faith alone its like shall win you ; 
So, trust like ours shall ever lift the brow ; 

And strength like ours shall ever steel the sinew ! 
We are the blossoms which the storm has cast 

From the Spring promise of our Freedom's tree, 
Pruning its overgrowths, that so, at last, 

Its later fruit more bountiful shall be ! — 
Content, if, when the balm of Time assuages 
The branch's hurt, some fragrance of our lives 
In all the land survives, 
And makes their memory sweet through still expanding ages ! 



Thus grandly, they we mourn, themselves console us ; 
And, as their spirits conquer and control us, 
We hear, from some high realm that lies beyond, 
The hero-voices of the Past respond. 



222 odes. 

From every State that reached a broader right 

Through fiery gates of battle ; from the shock 

Of old invasions on the People's rock; 

From tribes that stood, in Kings' and Priests' desp'ts 

From graves, forgotten in the Syrian sand, 

Or nameless barrows of the Northern strand, 

Or gorges of the Alps and Pyrenees, 

Or the dark bowals of devouring seas, — 

Wherever Man for Man's sake died, — wherever 

Death stayed the march of upward-climbing feet 

Leaving their Present incomplete, 
But through far Futures crowning their endeavor,— 
Their ghostly voices to our ears are sent, 
As when the high note of a trumpet wrings 

jEolian answers from the strings 
Of many a mute, unfingered instrument ! 
Plataean cymbals thrill for us to-day ; 
The horns of Sempach in our echoes play, 
And nearer yet, and sharper, and more stern, 
The slogan rings that startled Bannockburn ; 
Till from the field, made green with kindred deed. 

The shields are clashed in exultation 
Above the dauntless Nation, 
That for a Continent has fought its Runnymede ! 



Aye, for a Continent ! The heart that beats 

With such rich blood of sacrifice 
Shall, from the Tropics, drowsed with languid heats, 

To the blue ramparts of the Northern ice, 
Make felt its pulses, all this young world over ! — 

Shall thrill, and shake, and sway 
Each land that bourgeons in the Western day, 
Whatever flag may float, whatever shield may cover ! 
With fuller manhood every wind is rife, 

In every soil are sown the seeds of valor, 
Since out of death came forth such boundless life, 

Such ruddy beauty out of anguished pallor ! 

And that first deed, along the Southern wave, 

Spoiled not the sister-land, but lent an arm to save ' 



Now, in her seat secure, 
Where distant menaces no more can reach her, 

Our land, in undivided freedom pure. 
Becomes the unwilling world's unconscious teacher ; 
And, day by day, beneath serener skies, 
The unshaken pillars of her palace rise, — 
The Doric shafts, that lightly upward press, 
And hide in grace their giant massiveness. 
What though the sword has hewn each corner-stone, 

And precious blood cements the deep foundation ! 
Never by other force have empires grown ; 

From otner basis never rose a nation ! 
For strength is born of struggle, faith of doubt, 

Of discord law, and freedom of oppression ■ 



Shakespeare's statue. 223 

We hail from Pisgah, with exulting sh.mt, 
The Promised Land below us, bright with sun, 

And deem its pastures won, 
Ere toil and blood have earned us their possession ! 
Each aspiration of our human earth 
Becomes an act through keenest pangs of birth ; 
Each force, to bless, must cease to be a dream, 
And conquer life through agouy supreme ; 
Each inborn right must outwardly be tested 
By stern material weapons, ere it stand 
In the enduring fabric of the land, 
Secured for these who yielded it, and those who wrested ! 



This they have done for us who slumber here, — 

Awake, alive, though now so dumbly sleeping ; 
Spreading the board, but tasting not its cheer, 

Sowing, but never reaping ; — 
Building, but never sitting in the shade 
Of the strong mansion they have made ; — 
Speaking their word of life with mighty tongue, 
But hearing not the echo, million-voiced, 

Of brothers who rejoiced, 
From all our river vales and mountains flung ! 
So take them, Heroes of the songful Past ! 
Open your ranks, let every shining troop 

Its phantom banners droop, 
To hail Earth's noblest martyrs, and her last ! 

Take them, Fatherland ! 
Who, dying, conquered in thy name ; 

And, with a grateful hand, 
Inscribe their deed who took away thy blame, — 
Give, for their grandest all, thine insufficient fame ! 

Take them, God ! our Brave, 
The glad fulfillers of Thy dread decree ; 
Who grasped the sword for Peace, and smote to save. 
And, dying here for Freedom, also died for Thee ! 



SHAKESPEAEE'S STATUE. 
Central Park, New York, Mat 23, 1872. 



In this free Pantheon of the air and sun, 
Where stubborn granite grudgingly gives place 
To petted turf, the garden's daintier race 

Of flowers, and Art hath slowly won 
A smile from grim, primeval barrenness, 

What alien Form doth stand ? 
Where scarcely yet the heroes of the land, 
As in their future's haven, from the stress 
Of all conflicting tides, find quiet deep 

Of bronze or marble sleep, 
What stranger comes, to join the scanty band * 

Who pauses here, as one that muses 

While centuries of men go by, 



224 odes. 

And unto all our questioning refuses 
His clear, infallible reply ? 
Who hath his will of us, beneath our new-world sky ? 



ii. 

Here, in his right, he stands ! 
No breadth of earth-dividing seas can bar 
The breeze of morning, or the morning star, 

From visiting our lands : 
His wit, the breeze, his wisdom, as the star, 
Shone where our earliest life was set, and blew 

To freshen hope and plan 

In brains American, — 
To urge, resist, encourage, and subdue ! 
He came, a household ghost we could not ban : 
He sat, on winter nights, by cabin fires ; 
His summer fairies linked their hands 

Along our yellow sands ; 
He preached within the shadow of our spires ; 
And when the certain Fate drew nigh, to cleav6 
The birth-cord, and a separate being leave, 
He, in our ranks of patient-hearted men. 
Wrought with the boundless forces of his fame, 

Victorious, and became 
The Master of our thought, the land's first Citizen 1 



If, here, his image seem 
Of softer scenes and grayer skies to dream, 
Thatched cot and rustic tavern, ivied hall, 

The cuckoo's April call 
And cowslip-meads beside the Avon stream, 
He shall not fail that other home to find 

We could not leave behind ! 
The forms of Passion, which his fancy drew, 

Id us their ancient likenesses beget : 
So, from our lives forever born anew, 

He stands amid his own creations yet ! 
Here comes lean Cassius, of conventions tired ; 

Here, in his coach, luxurious Antony 
Beside his Egypt, still of men admired ; 
And Brutus plans some purer liberty ! 
A thousand Shylocks, Jew and Christian, pass ; 
A hundred Hamlets, by their times betrayed ; 
And sweet Anne Page comes tripping o'er the grass, 

And antlered FalstafF pants beneath the shade. 
Here toss upon the wanton summer wind 

The locks of Rosalind ; 
Here some gay glove the damned spot conceals 

Which Lady Macbeth feels : 
His ease here smiling smooth Iago takes, 

And outcast Lear gives passage to his wot 1 . 
And here some foiled Reformer sadly break* 
His wand of Prospero ! 
In liveried splendor, side by side, 
Nick Bottom and Titania ride ; 



GOETHE. 

And Portia, flushed with cheers of men, 
Disdains dear, faithful Imogen ; 
And Puck, beside the form of Morse, 
Stops on his forty-minute course ; 
And Ariel from his swinging bough 
A blossom casts on Bryant's brow, 
Until, as summoned from his brooding brain, 
He sees his children all again, 
la us, as on our lips, each fresh, immortal strain ! 



Be welcome, Master ! In our active air 

Keep the calm strength we need to learn of thee ! 

A steadfast anchor be 
Mid passions that exhaust, and times that wear . 
Thy kindred race, that scarcely knows 

What power is in Repose, 
What permanence in Patience, what renown 
In silent faith aud plodding toil of Art 

That shyly works apart, 
All these in thee unconsciously doth crown ! 



The Many grow, through honor to the One ■ 
And what of loftier life we do not live, 

This Form shall help to give, 
In our free Pantheon of the air and sun ! 
Here, where the noise of Trade is loudest, 

It builds a shrine august, 
To show, while pomp of wealth is proudest, 
How brief is gilded dust : 
How Art succeeds, though long, 
And o'er the tumult of the generations, 
The strong, enduring spirit of the nations, 

How speaks the voice of Song ! 
Our City, at her gateways of the sea, 

Twines bay around the mural crown upon hei 
And wins new grace and dearer dignity, 
Giving our race's Poet honor ! 
If such as he 
Again may ever be, 
And our humanity another crown 
Find in some equal, late renown, 
The reverence of wbat he was shall call it do^m 



GOETHE. 

New York, August 28, 1875. 



Whose voice shall so invade the sphereg 
That, ere it die, the Master hears ? 
Whose arm is now so strong 
To fling the votive garland of a song. 
15 



225 



226 ODES. 



That some fresh odor of a world he kne\* 
With large enjoyment, and may yet 
Not utterly forget, 
Shall reach his place, and whisper whence i\ gi 

Dare we invoke him, that he pause 
On trails divine of unimagined laws, 

And bend the luminous eyes 
Experience could not dim, nor Fate surprise, 
On these late honors, where we fondly seem, 
Him thus exalting, like him to aspire, 
And reach, in our desire, 
The triumph of his toil, the beauty of his drean: 



God moulds no second poet from the clay 
Time once hath cut in marble : when, at last, 

The veil is plucked away, 
We see no face familiar to the Past. 

New mixtures of the elements, 
And fresh espousals of the soul and sense, 

At first disguise 
The unconjectured Genius to our eyes, 
Till self-nursed faith and self -encouraged power 

Win the despotic hour 
That bids our doubting race accept and recognize 



Ah, who shall say what cloud of disregard, 
Cast by the savage ancient fame 
Of some forgotten name, 
Mantled the Cbian bard ? 
He walked beside the strong, prophetic sea, 
Indifferent as itself, and nobly free ; 
While roll of waves and rhythmic sound of oars 

Along Ionian shores, 
To Troy's high story chimed in undertone, 
And gave his song the accent of their own ! 
What classic ghost severe was summoned up 
To threaten Dante, when the bitter bread 

Of exile on his board was spread, 
The bitter wine of bounty filled his cup ? 
We need not ask : the unpropitious years, 

The hate of Guelf, the lordly sneers 
Of Delia Scala's court, the Roman ban, 
Were but as eddying dust 
To his firm-centred trust ; 
For through that air without a star 
Burned one unwavering beacon from afar, 
That kept him his and ours, the stern, immortal mac 
What courtier, stuffed with smooth, accepted lor^ 

Of Song's patrician line, 
But shrugged his velvet shoulders all the more, 
And heard, with bland, indulgent face, 
As who bestows a grace, 
The homely phrase that Shakespeare made divine ? 
So, now, the dainty souls that crave 



GOETHE. 227 

Light stepping-stones across a shallow wave, 
Shrink from the deeps of Goethe's soundless song ! 

So, now, the weak, imperfect fire 
That knows but half of passion and desire 
Betrays itself, to do the Master wrong ; — 
Turns, dazzled by his white, uncolored glow, 
And deems his sevenfold heat the wintry flash of snow ! 



Fate, like a grudging child, 

Herself once reconciled 
To power by loss, by suffering to fame ; 

Weighing the Poet's name 
With blindness, exile, want, and aims denied ; 
Or let faint spirits perish in their pride ; 
Or gave her justice when its need had died ; 

But as if weary she 
Of struggle crowned by victory, 
Him with the largesse of her gifts she tried ! 

Proud beauty to the boy she gave : 
A lip that bubbled song, yet lured the bee ; 
An eye of light, a forehead pure and free ; 
Strength as of streams, and grace as of the wave 

Round him the morning air 
Of life she charmed, and made his pathway fair ; 

Lent Love her lightest chain, 
That laid no bondage on the haughty brain, 
And cheapened honors with a new disdain : 

Kept, through the shocks of Time ; 
For him the haven of a peace sublime, 

And let his sight forerun 
The sown achievement, to the harvest won ! 



But Fortune's darling stood unspoiled : 
Caressing Love and Pleasure, 
He let not go the imperishable treasure : 
He thought, and sported ; carolled free, and toiled 
He stretched wide arms to clasp the joy of Earth 
But delved in every field 
Of knowledge, conquering all clear worth 
Of action, that ennobles through the sense 

Of wholly used intelligence : 
From loftiest pinnacles, that shone revealed 
In pure poetic ether, he could bend 
To win the little store 
Of humblest Labor's lore, 
And give each face of Life the greeting of a friend ! 
He taught, and governed, — knew the thankless days 

Of service and dispraise ; 
He followed Science gn her stony ways ; 
He turned from princely state to heed 

The single nature's need, 
And, through the chill of hostile years, 
Never unlearned the noble shame of tears ! 
Faced by fulfilled Ideals, he aspired 



228 odes. 



To win the perished secret of their grace, — 
To dower the earnest children of a race 
Toil never tamed, nor acquisition tired, 
With Freedom born of Beauty ! — and for them 

His Titan soul combined 

The passions of the mind, 
Which blood and time so long had held apart, 
Till the white blossom of the Grecian Art 
The world saw shine once more, upon a Gothic stem ! 



His measure would we mete ? 
It is a sea that murmurs at our feet. 

Wait, first, upon the strand : 
A far shore glimmers — " knowest thou the land ? " 
Whence these gay flowers that breathe beside the walcr 1 

Ask thou the Erl-King's daughter ! 
It is no cloud that darkens thus the shore : 
Faust on his mantle passes o'er. 
The water roars, the water heaves, 

The trembling waves divide : 
A shape of beauty, rising, cleaves 

The green translucent tide. 
The shape is a charm, the voice is a spell ; 
We yield, and dip in the gentle swell. 
Then billowy arms our limbs entwine, 
And, chill as the hidden heat of wine, 
We meet the shock of the sturdy brine ; 
And we feel, beneath the surface-flow, 
The tug of the powerful undertow, 

That ceaselessly gathers and sweeps 
To broader surges and darker deeps ; 
Till, faint and breathless, we can but float 
Idly, and listen to many a note 
From horns of the Tritons flung afar ; 

And see, on the watery rim, 

The circling Dorides swim, 
And Cypris, poised on her dove-drawn car ! 

Torn from the deepest caves, 

Sea-blooms brighten the waves : 
The breaker throws pearls on the sand, 
And inlets pierce to the heart of the land, 

Winding by dorf and mill, 
Where the shores are green and the waters still. 

And the force, but now so wild, 
Mirrors the maiden and sports with the child ! 
Spent from the sea, we gain its brink, 

With soul aroused and limbs aflame : 
Half are we drawn, and half we sink, 

But rise no more the same. 



O meadows threaded by the silver Main ! 

O Saxon hills of pine, 
Witch-haunted Hartz, and thou, 

Deep vale of Ilmenau ! 



GOETHE. U29 



Ye knew your poet ; and not only ye : 

The purple Tyrrhene Sea 
Not murmurs Virgil less, but him the more , 
The Lar of haughty Kome 
Gave the high guest a home : 
He dwells with Tasso on Sorrento's shore ! 
The dewy wild-rose of his German lavs, 
Beside the classic cyclamen, 

In many a Sabine glen, 
Sweetens the calm Italian days. 
But pass the hoary ridge of Lebanon, 

To where the sacred sun 
Beams on Schiraz; and lo! before the gates, 

Goethe, the heir of Hafiz, waits. 
Know ye the turbaned brow, the Persian guise, 
The bearded lips, the deep yet laughing eyes 1 
A cadence strange and strong 
Fills each voluptuous song, 
And kindles energy from old repose ; 
Even as first, amid the throes 
Of the unquiet West, 
He breathed repose to heal the old unrest ! 



Dear is the Minstrel, yet the Man is more ; 
But should I turn the pages of his brain, 
The lighter muscle of my verse would strain 

And break beneath his lore. 
How charge with music powers so vast and free, 

Save one be great as he 1 
Behold him, as ye jostle with the throng 
Through narrow ways, that do your beings wrong, 
Self-chosen lanes, wherein ye press 

In louder Storm and Stress, 
Passing the lesser bounty by 
Because the greater seems too high, 
And that sublimest joy forego, 

To seek, aspire, and know ! 
Behold in him, since our strong line began, 

The first full-statured man ! 
Dear is the Minstrel, even to hearts of prose ; 
But he who sets all aspiration free 

Is dearer to humanity. 
Still through our age the shadowy Leader goes ; 
Still whispers cheer, or waves his warning sign ; 

The man who, most of men, 
Heeded the parable from lips divine, 

And made :me talent ten 1 



230 ODES. 



THE NATIONAL ODE. 

iHDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA, JPLT 4, 187 

L— l. 

Sun of the stately Day 
Let Asia into the shadow drift, 
Let Europe bask in thy ripened ray, 
And over the severing ocean lift 
A brow of broader splendor ! 
Give light to the eager eyes 
Of the Land that waits to behold thee rise ; 
The gladness of morning lend her, 
With the triumph of noon attend her, 
And the peace of the vesper skies ! 
For, lo ! she cometh now 
With hope on the lip and pride on the brow, 
Stronger, and clearer, and fairer, 
To smile on the love we bear her, — 
To live, as we dreamed her and sought her, 

Liberty's latest daughter ! 
In the clefts of the rocks, in the secret places, 

We found her traces ; 
On the hills, in the crash of woods that fall, 
We heard her call ; 
When the lines of battle broke, 
We saw her face in the fiery smoke ; 
Through toil, and anguish, and desolation, 
We followed, and found her 
With the grace of a virgin Nation 
As a sacred zone around her ! 

Who shall rejoice 
With a righteous voice, 
Far-heard through the ages, if not she ? 

For the menace is dumb that defied her, 
The doubt is dead that denied her, 
And she stands acknowledged, and strong, and fre« 

II. — 1. 

Ah, hark ! the solemn undertone, 
On every wind of human story blown. 

A large, divinely-moulded Fate 
Questions the right and purpose of a State, 
And in its plan sublime 

Our eras are the dust of Time. 

The far-off Yesterday of power 
Creeps back with stealthy feet, 

Invades the lordship of the hour, 
And at our banquet takes the unbidden seat. 
From all unchronicled and silent ages 
Before the Future first begot the Past, 

Till History dared, at last, 
To write eternal words on granite pages ; 
From Egypt's tawny drift, and Assur's mound, 

And where, uplifted white and far, 



THE NATIONAL ODE. 231 

Earth highest yearns to meet a star, 
And Man his manhood by the Ganges found, — 
Imperial heads, of old millennial sway, 

And still by some pale splendor crowned, 
Chill as a corpse-light in our full-orbed day, 

In ghostly grandeur rise 
And say, through stony lips and vacant eyes: 
Thou that assertest freedom, power, and fame, 
Declare to us thy claim ! " 



On the shores of a Continent cast, 
She won the inviolate soil 
By loss of heirdom of all the Past, 
And faith in the royal right of Toil ! 
She planted homes on the savage sod : 
Into the wilderness lone 
She walked with fearless feet, 
In her hand the divining-rod, 
Till the veins of the mountains beat 
With fire of metal and force of stone ! 
She set the speed of the river-head 

To turn the mills of her bread ; 
She drove her ploughshare deep 
Through the prairie's thousand-centuried sleep 
To the South, and West, and North 
She called Pathfinder forth, 
Her faithful and sole companion 
Where the flushed Sierra, snow-starred, 
Her way to the sunset barred, 
And the nameless rivers in thunder and foam 
Channelled the terrible canyon ! 
Nor paused, till her uttermost home 
Was built, in the smile of a softer sky 
And the glory of beauty still to be, 
Where the haunted waves of Asia die 
On the strand of the world-wide sea ! 

II. — 2. 

The race, in conquering, 
Some fierce, Titanic joy of conquest knows ; 

Whether in veins of serf or king, 
Our ancient blood beats restless in repose. 

Challenge of Nature unsubdued 
Awaits not Man's defiant answer long ; 

For hardship, even as wrong, 
Provokes the level-eyed heroic mood. 
This for herself she did ; but that which lies, 

As over earth the skies, 
Blending all forms in one benignant glow, — 

Crowned conscience, tender care, 
Justice that answers every bondman's prayer, 
Freedom where Faith may lead and Thought may dar*> 

The power of minds that know, 

Passion of hearts that feel, 

Purchased by blood and woe, 

Guarded by fire and steel, — 



232 odes. 



Hath she secured ? What blazon on her shield, 
In the clear Century's light 
Shines to the world revealed, 

Declaring nobler triumph, born of Right ? 

I. — 3. 

Foreseen in the vision of sages, 

Foretold when martyrs bled, 
She was born of the longing of ages, 
By the truth of the noble dead 
And the faith of the living fed 1 
No blood in her lightest veins 
Frets at remembered chains, 
Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head. 
In her form and features still 
The unblenching Puritan will, 
Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace, 
The Quaker truth and sweetness, 
And the strength of the danger-girdled race 
Of Holland, blend in a proud completeness. 
From the homes of all, where her being began. 
She took what she gave to Man ; 
Justice, that knew no station, 

Belief, as soul decreed, 
Free air for aspiration, 
Free force for independent deed ! 
She takes, but to give again, 
As the sea returns the rivers in rain ; 
And gathers the chosen of her seed 
From the hunted of every crown and creed. 
Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine ; 
Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine ; 
Her France pursues some dream divine ; 
Her Norway keeps his mountain pine ; 
Her Italy waits by the western brine ; 
And, broad-based under all, 
I> planted England's oaken-hearted mood, 

As rich in fortitude 
As e'er went worldward from the island-wall ! 

Fused in her candid light, 
To one strong race all races here unite : 
Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemen . 
Forget their sword and slogan, kith and clan : 

'T was glory, once, to be a Roman : 
She makes it glory, now, to be a man ! 

II. — 3. 

Bow down ! 
Doff thine asonian crown ! 

One hour forget 
The glory, and recall the debt : 
Make expiation, 
Of humbler mood, 
For the pride of thine exultation 
O'er peril conquered and strife subdued ! 
But half the right is wrested 

When victory yields her prize. 



THE NATIONAL ODE. 2H3 

And half the marrow tested 

When old endurance, dies. 
In the sight of them that love thee. 
Bow to the Greater above thee! 

He fnileth not to smite 
The idle ownership of Right, 
Nor spares to sinews fresh from trial, 
And virtue schooled in long denial, 

The tests that wait for thee 
In larger perils of prosperity. 
Here, at the Century's awful shrine, 
Bow to thy Father's God, and thine ! 

I. — 4. 

Behold ! she bendeth now, 
Humbling the chaplet of her hundred years : 
There is a solemn sweetness on her brow, 
And in her eyes are sacred tears. 
Can she forget, 
In present joy, the burden of her debt, 
When for a captive race 
She grandly staked, and won, 
The total promise of her power begun, 

And bared her bosom's grace 
To the sharp wound that inly tortures yet ? 

Can she forget 
The million graves her young devotion set, 

The hands that clasp above, 

From either side, in sad, returning love ? 

Can she forget, 

Here, where the Ruler of to-day, 

The Citizen of to-morrow, 

And equal thousands to rejoice and pray 

Beside these holy walls are met, 
Her birth-cry, mixed' of keenest bli>s and sorrow * 
Where, on July's immortal morn 
Held forth, the People saw her head 
And shouted to the world : " The King is dead, 

But, lo ! the Heir is boru ! " 
When fire of Youth, and sober trust of Age, 
In Farmer, Soldier, Priest, and Sage, 
Arose and cast upon her 
Baptismal garments, — never robes so fair 

Clad prince in Old- World air, — 
Their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor 1 

H — 4. 

Arise ! Recrown thy head, 
Radiant with blessing of the Dead ! 

Bear from this hallowed place 
The prayer that purifies thy lips, 
The light of courage that defies eclipse, 
The rose of Man's new morning on thy face ! 

Let no iconoclast 
Invade thy rising Pantheon of the Past, 
To make a blank where Adams stood, 



234 ODES. 



To touch the Father's sheathed and sacred blade, 
Spoil crowns on Jefferson and Franklin laid, 
Or wash from Freedom's feet the stain of Lincoln's blood 1 
Hearken, as from that haunted Hall 
Their voices call : 
" We lived and died for thee ; 
We greatly dared that thou might'st be : 
So, from thy children still 
We claim denials which at last fulfil, 
And freedom yielded to preserve thee free ! 
Beside clear-hearted Right 
That smiles at Power's uplifted rod, 
Plant Duties that requite, 
And Order that sustains, upon thy sod, 

And stand in stainless might 
Above all self, and only less than God ! 

nr. — 1. 

Here may thy solemn challenge end, 
All-proving Past, and each discordance die 

Of doubtful augury, 
Or in one choral with the Present blend, 
And that half-heard, sweet harmony 
Of something nobler that our sons may see ! 

Though poignant memories burn 
Of days that were, and may again return, 
When thy fleet foot, O Huntress of the Woods, 
The slippery brinks of danger knew, 
And dim the eyesight grew 
That was so sure in thine old solitudes, — 

Yet stays some richer sense 
Won from the mixture of thine elements, 

To guide the vagrant scheme, 
And winnow truth from each conflicting dream ! 

Yet in thy blood shall live 
Some force unspent, some essence primitive, 
To seize the highest use of things ; 
For Fate, to mould thee to her plan, 
Denied thee food of kings, 
Withheld the udder and the orchard-fruits, 
Fed thee with savage roots, 
And forced thy harsher milk from barren breasts of man 

III. — 2. 

sacred Woman-Form, 
Of the first People's need and passion wrought, — 

No thin, pale ghost of Thought, 
But fair as Morning and as heart's-blood warm, — 
Wearing thy priestly tiar on Judah's hills ; 
Clear-eyed beneath Athene's helm of gold ; 

Or from Rome's central seat 
Hearing the pulses of the Continents beat 
In thunder where her legions rolled ; 
Compact of high heroic hearts and wills, 

Whose being circles all 
The selfless aims of men, and all fulfils ; 



THE OBSEQUIES IN ROME. 236 

Thyself not free, so lone: as one is thrall ; 

Goddess, that as a Nation lives, 

And as a Nation dies, 

That for her children as a man defies, 

And to her children as a mother gives, — 

Take our fresh fealty now ! 
No more a Chief tainess, with wampum-zone 
And feather-cincturod brow, — 
No more a new Britannia, grown 
To spread an equal banner to the breeze, 
And lift thy trident o'er the double seas ; 
But with unborrowed crest, 
In thine own native beauty dressed, — 
The front of pure command, the unflinching eye, thine own 

III. — 3. 

Look up, look forth, and on ! 

There 's light in the dawning sky : 
The clouds are parting, the night is gone : 

Prepare for the work of the day ! 

Fallow thy pastures lie, 

And far thy shepherds stray, 
And the fields of thy vast domain 

Are waiting for purer seed 

Of knowledge, desire, and deed, 
For keener sunshine and mellower rain ! 

But keep thy garments pure : 
Pluck them back, with the old disdain, 

Prom touch of the hands that stain ! 

So shall thy strength endure. 
Transmute into good the gold of Gain, 
Compel to beauty thy ruder powers, 

Till the bounty of coming hours 

Shall plant, on thy fields apart, 
With the oak of Toil, 'the rose of Art ! 

Be watchful, and keep us so : 

Be strong, and fear no foe : 

Be just, and the world shall know ! 
With the same love love us, as we give ; 

And the day shall never come, 

That finds us weak or dumb " 

To join and smite and cry 
In the great task, for thee to die, 
And the greater task, for thee to live ! 



THE OBSEQUIES IN ROME. 

January 17, 1878. 
I. 

Victor Emanuel! — of prophetic name, 

Who, crowned in sore defeat, 
Caught out of blood, disaster, and retreat, 
With wounded hands, a soldier's simple fame, 

Content, had that been all, 
And most content, victoriously to fall : — 
Life saved thee for a people's holiest aim,, 



ODES. 

And leaves thee Victor, in thy pall ! 
" God with its " may that people say, 
Who walk behind thy conquering dust, to-day : 
Yea, all thine Italy 
Made one, at last, and proudly free, 
Blesses thy sire's baptismal prophecy ! 



Since, over-coarse to be the Empire's lord, 

Herulian Odoaker fell 
Among spilled goblets, by the Gothic sword, 
In old Ravenna's palace citadel ; 

And, after him, Theodoric strove 
To own the land he could not choose but love;-— 
And both, from no deficiency of power, 

But failing heart and brain 
That might revivify the beauty slain, 
Builded barbaric thrones for one brief hour; — 

Since, in a glorious vision cast 
By some narcotic opiate of the Past, 

Kienzi sought to be 
Brutus in deed, Cassar in victory, — 

The Italy, that once was Kome, 
Dismembered, sighed for her deliverance, 

Saw her Republics die, 
Leaned vainly on the broken reed of France, 

Till, when despair seemed nigh, 
She knew herself, and, starting from her trance, 
Summoned the Victor, who hath led her home ! 



He knew his people, and his soul was strong 

To wait till they knew him : 
The hand that holds a sceptre dare not shake 
From the quick blood that burns at every wrong 

With Europe watchful, cold and grim 
Behind him, and the triple-hooded snake 

Coiled in his path, he went 
Through changing gusts of doubt and discontent. 
Till all he could have dreamed of, came to him ! 

But now his people know him ! — now, 
Since Death's pure coronet is on his brow, 

Italian eyes are dim ! 
Now to her ancient glories sovereign Rome 

Adds one more glory : sorrow falls 
O'er all the circuit of the Aurelian walls, — 
Even from Montorio on Saint Peter's dome : 
And where on warm Pamfili-Dorian meads 

Fresh dew the daisy feeds ; 
And breathes in every tall Borghese pine, 

And moans on Aventine ; 
And — could the voice of all desire awake 
That once was loud for Italy's dear sake, — 
A hymn would burst from each dumb burial stone 
Beside the Cestian pyramid, 
Where Keats's, Shelley's dust is hid, 
In dithyrambic triumph o'er his own ! 




WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Page 237. 



EP1CEDIUM. 237 



Who walk behind his bier ? 
Behold the solemn phantoms ! — who are they, 
The stern precursors that arise, to-day, 

Breathing of many a fiery year 
And clad in drapery of a darker time ? 

These are the dead who saw, 
Too soon, the world's diviner law, — 
Too early dreamed their people's dream sublime ! 
He follows them, who lived to make that dream 

A principle supreme, 
Dome-browed Mazzini, — he, who planted sure 

Its corner-stone, Cavour ! 
Then, first among the living, that gray chief 
Who wears, at last, his Roman laurel's leaf, 
To conquer which he rent and shattered down 

His rich Sicilian crown. 
Ah, bend thee, Garibaldi ! — be not loth 
To trust the son of him thou gav'st a land, 

Or kiss the stainless hand 
Of her whose name is pearl and daisy both ! 

Such love, to-day, thy people give 
To him who died, such trust to them who live. 



Cunning nor Force shall overthrow 
The State whose fabric has been builded so. 
Under the Pantheon's dome, 
The undying Victor still shall reign 
O'er one free land that dare not feel a chain, — 

Whose mighty heart is Rome ! 
Still, from the ramparts of the Rhsetiau snow, 
Far down the realms of corn and wine, 
Back-boned by Apennine, 
To capes that breast the warm Calabriau Sea, 
A single race shall know 
One love, one right, one loyalty : — 
Still from his ashes Italy shall grow, 
Who made her Italy ! 



EPICEDIUM. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
I. 

Say, who shall mourn him first, 
Who sang in days for Song so evil-starred, 
Shielding from adverse winds the flame he nursed, 

Our Country's earliest Bard ? 

For all he sang survives 
In stream, and tree, and bird, and mountain-crest, 
And consecration of uplifted lives 

To Duty's stern behest ; 
Till, like an echo falling late and far 



238 odes. 



As unto Earth the answer from a star, 
Along his thought's so nigh unnoted track 

Our people's heart o'ertakes 
His pure design, and hears him, and awakes 

To breathe its music hack ! 
Approach, sad Forms, now fitly to employ 
The grave, sweet stops of all melodious sound, 

Yet undertoned with joy ; 
For him ye lose, at last is truly found. 



Scarce darkened by the shadow of these hours, 
The Manitou of Flowers, 
Crowned with the Painted-cup, that shakes 
Its gleam of war-paint on his dusky cheek, 

Goes by, but cannot speak ; 
Yet tear or dew-drop 'neath his coronal breaks, 

And in his drooping hand 
The azure eyelids of the gentian die 
That loves the yellow autumn land ; 
The wind-flower, golden-rod, 
With phlox and orchis, nod ; 
And every blossom frail and shy 
No careless loiterer sees, 
But poet, sun and breeze, 
And the bright countenance of our western sky. 
They know who loved them ; they, if all 

Forgot to dress his pall, 
Or strew his couch of long repose, 
Would from the prairies and the central snowa 

The sighing west-wind call, 
Their withered petals, even as tears, to bear, 

And, like a Niobe of air, 
Upon his sea-side grave to let them fall ! 



Next you, ye many Streams, 
That make a music through his cold green land ! 

Whether ye scour the granite slides 
In broken spray-light or in sheeted gleams, 

Or in dark basins stand, 
Your bard's fond spirit in your own abides. 

Not yours the wail of woe, 
Whose joy is in your wild and wanton flow, — 

Chill, beautiful Undines 
That flash white hands behind your thicket-screens, 
And charm the wildwood and the cloven flumes 

To hide you in their glooms ! 
But he hath kissed you, and his lips betray 
Your coyest secrets ; now, no more 
Your bickering, winking tides shall stray 
Through August's idle day, 
Or showered with leaves from brown November's floor, 
Untamed, and rich in mystery 

As ye were wont to be ! 
From where the dells of Greylock feed 



EPICEDIUM. 239 



Your thin, young life, to where the Sangamon 
Breaks with his winding green the Western mead, 

Delay to hasten on ! 

Ask not the clouds and hills 
To swell the veins of your obedient rills, 
And brim your banks with turbid overflow ; 

But calmly, soothly go, 
Soft as a sigh and limpid as a tear, 

So that ye seem to borrow 

The voice and the visage of sorrow, 
For he gave you glory and made you dear ! 



Strong Winds and mighty Mountains, sovereign Sea, 

What shall your dirges be ? 
The slow, great billow, far down the shore, 
Booms in its breaking : " Dare — and despair ! " 
The fetterless winds, as they gather and roar, 
Are evermore crying : " Where, oh where f " 
The mountain summits, with ages hoar, 
Say : "Near and austere, but far and fair ! " 

Shall ye in your sorrow droop, 
Who are strong and sad, and who cannot stoop ? 
Two may sing to him where he lies, 
But the third is hidden behind the skies. 

Ye cannot take what he stole, 
And made his own in his inmost soul ! 

The pulse of the endless Wave 
Beauty and breadth to his strophes gave ; 

The Winds with their hands unseen 
Held him poised at a height serene ; 
And the world that wooed him, he smiled to o'ertome it 

Whose being the Mountains made so strong, — 
Whose forehead arose like a sunlighted summit 

Over eyes that were fountains of thought and song I 



And last, ye Forms, with shrouded face 
Hiding the features of your woe, 
That on the fresh sod of his burial-place 

Your myrtle, oak, and laurel throw, — 
Who are ye ? — whence your silent sorrow 1 
Strange is your aspect, alien your attire : 

Shall we, who knew him, borrow 
Your unknown speech for Grief's august desire ? 

Lo ! one, with lifted brow 
Says : " Nay, he knew and loved me : I am Spain 
Another : " I am Germany, 
Drawn sadly nearer now 
By songs of his and mine that make one strain, 
Though parted by the world-dividing sea! " 

And from the hills of Greece there blew- 
A wind that shook the olives of Peru, 

Till all the world that knew, 
Or, knowing not, shall yet awake to know 
The sweet humanity that fused his song, — 
The haughty challenge unto Wrong, 



240 ODES. 



And for the trampled Truth his fearless blow, — 

Acknowledge his exalted mood 
Of faith achieved in song-born solitude, 

And give him high acclaim 
With those who followed Good, and found it Fame 



Ah, no ! — why should we mourn 
The noble life, that wore its crown of years ? 
Why drop these tender, unavailing tears 
Upon a fate of no fulfilment shorn ? 

He was too proud to seek 
That which should come unasked ; and came 
Kindling and brightening as a wind-blown flam? 
When he had waited long, 
And life — but never art — was weak, 
But youthful will and sympathy were strong 
In white-browed eye and hoary-bearded cheek; 
Until, when called at last 
That later life to celebrate, 
Wherein, dear Italy, for thine estate, 
The glorious Present joined the glorious Past 

He fell, and ceased to be ! 
We could not yield him grandlier than thu? 
When, for thy hero speaking, he 
Spake equally for us ! — 
His last word, as his first, was Liberty ! 
His last word, as his first, for Truth 
Struck to the heart of age and youth 
He sought her everywhere, 
In the loud city, forest, sea, and air : 
He bowed to wisdom other than his own, 
To wisdom and to law, 
Concealed or dimly shown 
In all he knew not, all he knew and saw, 
Trusting the Present, tolerant of the Past, 

Firrn-faithed in what shall come 
When the vain noises of these days are dumb; 
And his first word was noble as his last ! 
Bulik, Stpttmber, 18" 3. 



THE 



PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 



In regard to the subject of this poem I have nothing to say. It grew natu- 
rally out of certain developments in my own mind ; and the story, unsuggested 
by any legend or detached incident whatever, shaped itself to suit the theme. 
The work of time, written only as its own necessity prompted, and finished with 
the care and conscience which such a venture demands, I surrender it to the 
judgment of the reader. 

The form of the stanza which I have adopted, however, requires a word of ex- 
planation. I have endeavored to strike a middle course between the almost inev- 
itable monotony of an unvarying stanza, in a poem of this length, and the loose 
character which the heroic measure assumes when arbitrarily rhymed, without 
the check of regularly recurring divisions. It seemed to me that this object 
might be best accomplished by adhering rigidly to the measure and limit of the 
stanza, yet allowing myself freedom of rhyme within that limit. The ottava rima 
is undoubtedly better adapted for the purposes of a romantic epic than either the 
Spenserian stanza or the heroic couplet ; but it needs the element of humor (as 
in Byron's " Don Juan") to relieve its uniform sweetness. On the other hand, 
the proper compactness and strength of rhythm can with difficulty be preserved 
in a poem where all form of stanza is discarded. My aim has been, as far as pos- 
sible, to combine the advantages and lessen the objections of both. 

I know of but one instance in which the experiment has been even pariially 
tried, — the " Oberon " of Wieland, wherein the rhymes are wilfully varied, and 
sometimes the measure, the stanza almost invariably closing with an Alexan- 
drine. In the present case, I have been unable to detect any prohibitory rule in 
the genius of our language ; and the only doubt which suggested itself to my 
mind was that the ear, becoming swiftly accustomed to the arrangement of rhyme 
in one stanza, might expect to find it reproduced in the next. I believe, however, 
that such disappointment, if it should now and then occur, will be very transi- 
tory, — that even an unusually delicate ear will soon adjust itself to the changing 
order, and find that the varied harmony at which I have aimed (imperfectly as I 
may have succeeded) compensates for the lack of regularity. At times, I con- 
fess, the temptation to close with an Alexandrine was very great ; but it was 
necessary to balance the one apparent license by a rigid adherence to the custom- 
ary form in all other respects. Hence, also, I have endeavored, as frequently as 
possible, to use but three rhymes in a stanza, in order to strengthen my experi- 
ment with an increased effect of melody. I have found, since the completion of 
the poem, that it contains more than seventy variations in the order of rhyme, 
not all of which, of course, can be pronounced equally agreeable : nor does this 
freedom involve less labor than a single form of stanza, because the variation*? 
must be so arranged as to relieve and support each other. My object has been, 
uot to escape the laws which Poetry imposes, but to select a form which gives 
greater appearance of unrestrained movement, and more readily reflects the va 
rying moods of the poem. 



PEOEM. 



TO THE ARTISTS. 



Because no other dream my childhood knew 
Than your bright Goddess sends, — that earliest 
Her face I saw, and from her bounteous breast, 
All others dry, the earliest nurture drew ; 
And since the hope, so lovely, was not true, 
To write my life in colors, — win a place 
Among your ranks, though humble, yet with grace 
That might accord me brotherhood with you : 



Because the dream, thus cherished, gave my life 
Its first faint sense of beauty, and became, 
Even when the growing years to other strife 
Led forth my feet, a shy, secluded flame : 
And ye received me, when our pathways met, 
As one long parted, but of kindred fate ; 
And in one heaven our kindred stars are set ; 
To you, my Brethren, this be dedicate ! 



And though some sportive nymph the channel turned, 

And led to other fields mine infant rill, 

The sense of fancied destination still 

Leaps in its waves, and will not be unlearned. 

I charge not Fate with having done me wrong ; 

Much hath she granted, though so much was spurned ; 

But leave the keys of Color, silent long, 

And pour my being through the stops of Song ! 



Even as one breath the organ-pipe compels 

To yield that note which through the minster swells 

In chorded thunder, and the hollow lyre 

Beneath its gentler touches to awake 

The airy monotones that fan desire, 

And thrills the fife with blood of battle, — so 

Our natures from one source their mush take, 

And side by side to one far Beauty flow ! 



246 PKOEM. 



And I have measured, in fraternal pride, 
Your revere~.ce, your faith, your patient power 
Of stern self-abnegation ; and have tried 
The range between your brightest, darkest hour, 
The path of chill neglect, and that so fair 
With praise upspringing like a wind-sown flower : 
But, whether thorns or amaranths ye wear, 
Your speech is mine, your sacrifice, your prayer ! 



VI. 

Permit me, therefore, ye who nearest stand, 
Among the worthiest, and kindliest known 
In contact of our lives, to take the hand 
Whose grasp assures me I am not alone ; 
For thus companioned, I shall find the tone 
Of flowing song, and all my breath command. 
Your names I veil from those who should not see , 
Not from yourselves, my Friends, and not from rce 



You, underneath whose brush the autumn day 
Draws near the sunset which it never finds, — 
Whose art the smoke of Indian Summer binds 
Beyond the west-wind's power to breathe away 
Who fix the breakers in their gifted grace 
And stretch the sea- horizon, dim and gray, 
I '11 call you Opal, — so your tints enchase 
The pearly atmospheres wherein they play. 



And you, who love the brown October field, 

The lingering leaves that flutter as they cling, 

And each forlorn but ever-lovely thing, — 

To whom elegiac Autumn hath revealed 

Her sweetest dirges, Bloodstone : for the hue 

Of sombre meadows to your palette cleaves, 

And lowering skies, with sunlight breaking througt 

And flecks of crimson on the scattered leaves ! 



You, Topaz, clasp the full-blown opulence 
Of Summer: many a misty mountain-range 
Or smoky valley, specked with warrior- tents, 
Basks on your canvas : then, with grander change, 
We climb to where your mountain twilight fleams 
In spectral pomp, or nurse the easeful sense 
Which through your Golden Day forever dreams 
By lakes and sunny hills, and falling streams. 



You banish color from your cheerful cell, 
O Paros ! but a stern imperial form 



PROEM. 247 



Stands in the marble moonlight where you dwell, 
A Poet's head, with grand Ionian beard, 
And Phidian dreams, that shine against the storm 
Of toilful life, the white robe o'er them cast 
Of breathless Beauty : yours the art, endeared 
To men and gods, first born, enduring last. 



You, too, whom how to name I may not guess, 

Except the jacinth and the ruby, blent, 

The native warmth of life might represent, 

Which, drawn from barns and homesteads, you express. 

Or vintage revels, round the maple-tree ; 

Or when the dusky race you quaintly dress 

In art that gives them finer liberty, — 

Made by your pencil, ere by battle, free ! 



Where'er my feet have strayed, whatever shore 

I visit, there your venturous footprints cling. 

From Chimborazo unto Labrador 

One sweeps the Continent with eagle wing, 

To dip his brush in tropic noon, or fires 

Of Arctic night ; one sets his seal upon 

Far Colorado's cleft, colossal spires, 

And lone, snow-kindled cones of Oregon ! 



XIII. 

Another through the mystic moonlight floats 
That silvers Venice ; and another sees 
The blazoned galleys and the gilded boats 
Bring home her Doges : Amlalusian leas, 
Gray olive-slopes, and mountains sun-em browned 
Entice another, and from ruder ground 
Of old Westphalian homes another brings 
Enchanted memories of the meanest things. 



To each and all, the hand of fellowship ! 
A poet's homage (should that title fall 
From other lips than mine) to each and all ! 
For, whether this pale star of Song shall dip 
To swift forgetfulness, or burn beside 
Accepted lamps of Art's high festival, 
Its flame was kindled at our shrines allitd, 
In double faith, and from a twofold (all i 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



BOOK I. 

THE ARTIST. 



Complete the altar stands : my task is 
done. 

Awhile from sacred toil and silent prayer 

I rest, and never shone the vale so fair 

As now, beneath the mellow autumn 
sun, 

And overbrcathed by tinted autumn air ! 

In drowsy murmurs slide the mountain 
rills, 

And, save of light, the whole wide heav- 
en is bare 

Above the happy slumber of the hills. 



Here, as a traveller whose feet have 

clomb 
A weary mountain-slope, may choose 

his seat, 
And resting, track the ways that he 

hath come, — 
The broken landscapes, level far below, 
The turf that kissed, the flints that tore 

his feet, 
And each dim speck that once was bliss 

or woe, — 
I breathe a space, between two sundered 

lives, 
And view what now is ended, what sur- 
vives. 

in. 

Such as I am, I am : in soul and sense 
Distinct, existing in my separate right, 
And though a Power, beyond my 

clouded sight, 
Spun from a thousand gathered fila- 
ments 
My cord of life, within its inmost core 
That life is mine : its torture, its delight, 



Repeat not those that ever were before 
Or ever shall be: mine are Day and 

Night. 



God gives to most an order which sup- 
plies 
Their passive substance, and they move 

therein. 
To some He grants the beating wings 

that rise 
In endless aspiration, till they win 
An awful vision of a deeper sin 
And loftier virtue, other earth and skies : 
And those their common help from eaih 

may draw, 
But these must perish, save they find 
the law. 



Vain to evade and useless to bewail 
My fortune ! One among the scattered 

few 
Am I : by sharper lightning, sweeter dew 
Refreshed or blasted, — on a wilder 

gale 
Caught up and whirled aloft, till, hither 

borne, 
My story pauses. Ere I drop the veil 
Once let me take the Past in calm ic 

view, 
Th<*i eastward turn, and front the ripei 

morn. 



What sire begat me, and what mothet 

nursed, 
What hills the blue frontiers of Earth 

thought, 
Or how mv voting ambition scaled them 

first, 
It matters not : but I was finely wrought 



250 



THE PICTUEE OF ST. JOHN. 



Beyond their elements from whom I 

came. 
A nimbler life informed mine infant 

frame : 
The gauzy wings some Psyche-fancy 

taught 
To flutter, soulless custom could not 

tame. 



Our state was humble, — yet above the 

dust, 
If deep below the stars, — the state that 

feeds 
Impatience, hinting yet denying needs, 
And thus, on one side ever forward 

thrust 
And on the other cruelly repressed, 
My nature grew, — a wild-flower in the 

weeds, — 
And hurt by ignorant love, that fain 

had blessed, 
I sought some other bliss wherein to rest. 



And, wandering forth, a child that could 

not know 
The thing for which he pined, in sombre 

woods 
And echo-haunted mountain-solitudes 
I learned a rapture from the blended 

show 
Of form and color, felt the soul that 

broods 
In lonely scenes, the moods that come 

and go 
O'er wayward Nature, making her the 

haunt 
Of Art's forerunner, Love's eternal 

want. 



Long ere the growing instinct reached 

my hand, 
It filled my brain : a pang of joy was 

born, 
When, soft as dew, across the dewy land 
Of Summer, leaned the crystal-hearted 

Morn; 
ind when the lessening day shone 

yellow-cold 
On fallow glebe and stubble, I would 

stand 
And feel a dumb despair its wings un- 
fold, 
And wring my hands, and weep as one 

forlorn. 



At first in play, but soon with heat anil 

stir 
Of joy that hails discovered power, I 

tried 
To mimic form, and taught mine eye to 

guide 
The unskilled fingers. Praise became 

a spur 
To overtake success, for in that vale 
The simple people's wonder did not fail, 
Nor vulgar prophecies, which yet confer 
The first delicious thrills of faith and 

pride. 



So, as on shining pinions lifted o'er 
The perilous bridge of boyhood, I ad- 
vanced. 
In warmer air the misty Maenads danced, 
And Sirens sang on many a rising shore, 
And Glory's handmaids beckoned me to 

choose 
The freshest of the unworn wreaths 

they bore ; 
So gracious Fortune showed, so fair the 

hues 
Wherewith she paints her cloud-built 
avenues ! 



Ere up through all this airy ecstasy 
The clamorous pulses of the senses beat, 
And half the twofold man, maturing 

first, 
Usurped its share of life, and bade ine 

see 
The ways of pleasure opening for my 

feet, 
I stood alone : the tender breast that 

nursed, 
The loins from whence I sprang, alike 

were cold, 
And mine the humble roof, the scanty 

gold. 



The pale, cold azure of my mouutaia 
sky 

Became a darkness : Arbor's head un- 
shorn 

No temple crowned, — not here could 
fame be horn ; 

And, nor with gold nor knowledge 
weighted, I 

Set forth, and o'er the green Bavariai 
laud, 



THE ARTIST. 



251 



A happy wanderer, fared : the hour was 

nigh 
When, in the home of Art, my feet 

should stand 
Where Time and Power have kissed the 

Painter's hand ! 



Oh, sweet it was, when, from that bleak 
abode 

Where avalanches grind the pines to 
dust, 

And crouching glaciers down the hol- 
lows thrust 

Their glittering claws, I took the sun- 
ward road, 

Making my guide the torrent, that be- 
fore 

My steps ran shouting, giddy with its 

j°7» 

And tossed its white hands like a game- 
some boy, 

And sprayed its rainbow frolics o'er and 
o'er ! 

xv. 

Full-orbed, in rosy dusk, the perfect 

moon 
That evening shone : the torrent's noise, 

afar, 
No longer menaced, but with mellow 

tune 
Sang to the twinkle of a silver star, 
Above the opening valley. " Italy ! " 
The moon, the star, the torrent, said to 

me, — 
' Sleep Uiou in peace, the morning will 

unbar 
These Alpine gates, and give thy world 

to thee ! " 

XVI. 

And morning did unfold the jutting capes 

Oi chestnut-wooded hills, that held em- 
bayed 

Warm coves of fruit, the pine's JEolian 
shade, 

Or pillared bowers, blue with suspended 
grapes ; — 

A land whose forms some livelier grace 
betrayed ; 

Where motion sang and cheerful color 
laughed, 

And only gloomed, amid the danctng 
shapes 

)f vine and bough, the pointed cypress- 
shaft ! 



XVII. 

On, — on, through broadeniug vale and 

brightening sun 
I walked, and hoary in their old repose 
The olives twinkled : many a terrace 

rose, 
With marbles crowned and jasmine 

overrun, 
And orchards where the ivory silk-worm 

spun. 
On leafy palms outspread, its pulpy fruit 
The fig-tree held ; and last, the charm 

to close, 
A dark-eyed shepherd piped a reedy 

flute. 

XVIII. 

My heart beat loud : I walked as in a 

dream 
Where simplest actions, touched with 

marvel, seem 
Enchanted yet familiar for I knew 
The orchards, terraces, and breathing 

flowers, 
The tree from Adam's garden, and the 

blue 
Sweet sky behind the light aerial 

towers ; 
And that young faun that piped, had 

piped before, — 
I knew my home : the exile now was 

o'er ! 



And when the third rich day declined 

his lids 
I floated where the emerald waters fold 
Gem-gardens, fairy island-pyramids, 
Whereon the orange hangs his globes of 

gold,— 
"Which aloes crown with white, colossal 

plume, 
Above the beds where lavish Nature bids 
Her sylphs of odor endless revel hold. 
Her zones of flowers in balmy congress 

bloom ! 



I hailed them all, and hailed beyond, the 

plain ; 
The palace-fronts, on distant hills uplift, 
White as the morning star ; the streams 

that drift 
In sandy channels to the Adrian main : 
Till one still eve, with duplicated stain 
Of crimson sky and wave, disclosed to 

me 



252 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN T . 



The domes of Venice, anchored on the 

sea, 
Far-off, — an airy city of the brain ! 

XXI. 

Forth from the shores of Earth we 

seemed to float, 
Drawn by that vision, — hardly felt the 

breeze 
That left one glassy ripple from the boat 
To break the smoothness of the silken 

seas ; 
And far and near, as from the lucent 

air, 
Came vesper chimes and wave-born 

melodies. 
So might one die, if Death his soul could 

bear 
So gently, Heaven before him float so 

fair ! 



This was the gate to Artists' Fairyland. 
The palpitating waters kissed the shores, 
Gurgled in sparkling coils beneath the 

oars, 
And lapped the marble stairs on either 

hand, 
Summoning Beauty to her holiday ; 
While noiseless gondolas at palace-doors 
Waited, and over all, in charmed de- 

- lay, 
San Marco's moon gazed from her 

golden stand ! 



A silent city ! where no clattering wheels 

Jar the white pavement : cool the streets, 
and dumb, 

Save for a million whispering waves, 
which come 

To light their mellow darkness : where 
the peals 

Of Trade's harsh clarions never vex the 
ear, 

But the wide blue above, the green be- 
low, 

Her pure Palladian palaces insphere, — 

Piles, on whose steps the grass shall 
never grow ! 



I sat within the courts of Veronese 
\nd saw his figures breathe luxurious 
air, 



And felt the sunshine of their lustrous 
hair. 

Beneath the shade of Titian's awful 
trees 

I stood, and watched the Martyr's brow 
grow cold : 

Then came Giorgione, with his brush of 
gold, 

To paint the dames that make his mem- 
ory fair, — 

The happy dames that never shall be 
old! 



But most I lingered in that matchless 

hall 
Where soars Madonna with adoring 

arms 
Outspread, while deepening glories round 

her fall, 
And every feature of her mortal charms 
Becomes immortal, at the Father's call : 
Beneath her, silver-shining cherubs fold 
The clouds that bear her, slowly heav- 
enward rolled : 
The Sacred Mystery broodeth over all ! 



And still, as one asleep, I turned away 
To see the crimson of her mantle burn 
In sunset clouds, the pearly deeps of 

day 
Filled with cherubic faces, — ah, to 

spurn 
My hopeless charts of pictures yet to be, 
And feed the fancies of a swift despair, 
Which mocked me from the azure arch 

of air, 
And from the twinkling beryl of the 

sea! 



If this bright bloom were inaccessible 
Which clad the world, and thus my 

senses stung, 
How could I catch the mingled tints 

that clung 
To cheek and throat, and softly down- 
ward fell 
In poise of shoulders and the breathing 

swell 
Of woman's bosom 1 How the life in 

eyes, 
The glory on the loosened hair that 

lies, 
The nameless music o'er her being 

flung? 



THE ARTIST. 



253 



Or how create anew the sterner grace 
In man's heroic muscles sheathed or 

shown, 
Whether he stoops from the immortal 

zone 
Bare and majestic, god in limbs and face ; 
Or lies, a faun, beside his mountain 

flock ; 
Or clasps, a satyr, nymphs among the 

vine ; 
Or kneels, a hermit, in his cell of rock ; 
Or sees, a saint, his palms of glory shine ! 



I took a fisher from the Lido's strand, 
A youthful shape, by toil and vice un- 
worn, 
Upon his limbs a golden flush like morn, 
And on his mellow cheek the roses 

tanned 
Of health and joy. Perchance the soul 

I missed, 
From mine exalted fancy migkt be born : 
With eye upraised and locks by sunshine 

kissed, 
I painted him as the Evangelist. 



In vain ! — the severance of his lips ex- 
pressed 

Kisses of love whereon his fancy fed, 

And the warm tints each other sweetly 
wed 

In slender limb and balanced arch of. 
breast, 

So keen with life, so marked in every 
line 

With unideal nature, none had guessed 

The dream that cheered me and the 
faith that led ; 

But human all I would have made di- 
vine ! 



[ found a girl before San Marco's shrine 
KneeHng in gilded gloom : her tawny 

hair 
Rippled across voluptuous shoulders 

bare, 
And something in the altar-taper's shine 
Sparkled like falling tears. This girl 

shall be 
MLy sorrowing Magdalen, as guilty- 

swec*. 



I said, as when, pure Christ! she knell 

to thee, 
And laid her blushing forehead on thy 

feet! 



She sat before me. Like a sunny brook 

Poured the unbraided ripples softly 
round 

The balmy dells, but left one snowy 
moiind 

Bare in its beauty: then I met her 
look, — 

The conquering gaze of those bold eyes, 
which made, 

Ah, God ! the unrepented sin more fair 

Than Magdalen kneeling with her hum- 
bled hair, 

Or Agatha beneath the quaestor's blade ! 



What if my chaste ambition wavered 

then? 
What if the veil from mine own nature 

fell 
And I obeyed the old Circean spell, 
And lived for living, not for painted men ? 
Youth follows Life, as bees the honey 

bell, 
And nightingales the northward march 

of Spring, 
And once, a dazzled moth, must try his 

wing, 
Though but to scorch it in the blaze of 

Hell! 



Why only mimic what I might possess 1 

The cheated sense that revels in delight 

Mocked at my long denial : touch and 
sight, 

The warmth of wine, the sensuous love- 
liness 

Of offered lips and bosoms breaking 
through 

The parted boddice : winds whose faint 
caress 

And wandering hands the daintiest 
dreams renew : 

The sea's absorbing and embracing blue 



01 these are woven our being's outward 

veil 
Of rich sensation, which has power ti 

part 



254 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



The pure, untroubled soul and drunken 

heart, — 
A screen of gossamer, but giants fail 
The bright, enchanted web to rend in 

twain. 
Two spirits dwell in us : one chaste and 

pale, 
A still recluse, whose garments know no 

stain, 
Whose patient lips are closed upon her 

pain : 



The other bounding to her cymbal's 
clang, 

A bold Bacchante, panting with the race 

Of joy, the triumph and the swift em- 
brace, 

And gathering in one cup the grapes 
that hang 

From every vine of Youth : around her 
head 

The royal roses bare their hearts of red ; 

Music is on her lips, and from her face 

Fierce freedom shines and wild, allur- 
ing grace ! 

XXXVII. 

Who shall declare that ever side by side 
To weave harmonious fate these spirits 

wrought 1 
To whom came ever one's diviner pride 
And one's full measure of delight, un- 
sought 1 
Who dares the cells of blood enrich, 

exhaust, 
Or trust his fortune unto either guide ? — 
So interbalanced hangs the equal cost 
Of what is ordered and of what is 
taught ! 



Surprised to Passion, my awakened life 
Whirled onward in a warm, delirious 

maze, 
At first reluctant, and with pangs of 

strife 
That dashed their bitter o'er my honeyed 

days, 
Until my soul's affrighted nun withdrew 
And left me free : for light that other's 

chains 
A s garlands seemed, and f resn her wins 

as dew, 
Ajid tvide her robes to hide the banquet- 

?tains ! 



XXXIX. 

Those were the days of Summe: which 

intrude 
Their sultry fervor on the realm oi 

Spring, 
And push its buds to sudden blossom- 
ing; 
When earth and air, with panting love 

imbued, 
O'erpower the subject life, and ceaseless 

dart 
All round the warm horizon of the 

heart 
Heat-lightnings in the sky of youth, 

which first 
Regains its freshness when the bolts 

have burst. 



And thus, when that Sirocco's breath 

had passed, 
A refluent wind of health swept o'er my 

brain, 
Cold, swift, and searching ; and before 

it fast 
Fled the uncertain, misty shapes which 

cast 
Their glory on my dreams. The ardor 

vain 
That would have snatched, unearned, 

slow labor's crown, 
Was dimmed ; and half with courage, 

half with pain, 
I guessed the path that led to old re- 
nown. 



I turned my pictures, pitying the while 
My boyish folly, for I could not yet 
The dear deception of my youth forget, 
And though it parted from me like an 

isle 
Of the blue sea behind some rushing 

keel, 
Still from the cliffs its temple seemed to 

smile, 
Fairer in fading : future morns reveal 
No bowers so bright as yesterdays con- 
ceal. 



The laughing boys that on the marble 

piers 
Lounge with their dangling feet abort 

the w&ve ; 
The tawny faces of the gondoliers ; 





j 



THE ARTIST. 



255 



The low-browed girl, whose scarce-un- 
folded years 

But half the lightning of her glances 
gave ; — 

I sketched in turn, with busy hand and 
brave, 

And crushed my clouded hope's recur- 
ring pang, 

Aud iveet " Ti voglio bene assai " sang. 



Then came the hour when I must say 

farewell 
To silent Venice in her crystal nest, — 
When with the last peals of San Marco's 

bell 
Her hushed and splendid pageant 

closed, and fell 
Like her own jewel in the ocean's breast. 
Belfry, and dome, and the superb array 
Of wave-born temples floated far away, 
And the dull shores received me in the 

west. 



And past the Euganrean hills, that break 
The Adrian plain, I wandered to the Po, 
And saw Ferrara, vacant in her woe, 
Clasp the dim cell wherein her children 

take 
A ghastly pride from her immortal 

shame ; 
And hailed Bologna, for Caracci's sake,— 
The master bold, who scorned to court 

his fame, 
But bared his arm and dipped his brush 

in flame. 



Through many a dark-red dell of Apen- 

nine, 
With chestnut-shadows in its brookless 

bed, 
By flinty slopes whose only dew is wine, 
And hills the olives gave a hoary head, 
I climbed to seek the sunny vale where 

flows 
The Tuscan river, — where, when Art 

was dead, 
Lorenzo's spring thawed out the ages' 

snows, 
&.nd green with life the eternal plant 

arose ! 



At last, from Pratolino's sloping crest, 
L saw th2 far, aerial, purple gleam, 



As from Earth's edge a fairer orb might 

seem 
In softer air and sunnier beauty drest, 
And onward swift with panting bosom 

pressed, 
Like one whose wavering will pursues a 

dream 
And shrinks from wakiug ; but the vis- 

ion grew 
With every step distinct in form and 

hue : 

XLVII. 

Till on the brink of ancient Fiesole', 
Mute, breathless, hanging o'er the daz 

zling deeps 
Of broad Val d'Arno, which the sinking 

day ' 
Drowned in an airy bath of rosy ray, — 
An atmosphere more dream -imbued 

than Sleep's, — 
My feet were stayed; with sweet and 

sudden tears, 
And startled lifting of the cloud that 

lay 
Upon the landscape of the future years ! 



I leaned against a cypress-bole, afraid 
With blind foretaste of coming ecstasy, 
So rarely on the soul the joy to be 
Prophetic dawns, so frequent falls the 

shade 
Of near misfortune! All my senses 

sang, 
And lark-like soared and jubilant and 

free 
The flock of dreams, that from my bo- 
som sprang, 
O'er yonder towers to hover and to hang ! 



Then, as the dusty road I downward 
paced, 

A phantom arch was ever builded nigh 

To span my coming, luminous and 
high; 

And airy columns, crowned with cen- 
sers, graced 

The dreamful pomp, — with many a 
starry bell 

From garlands woven in the fading sky, 

And noiseless fr untains shimmered, as 
they fell, 

Like meteor-fires that haunt a fairj 
dell! 



256 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



Two maids, upon a terrace that o'er- 

hung 
The highway, lightly strove in laughing 

play 
Each one the other's wreath to snatch 

away, 
With backward-hending heads, and arms 

that clung 
In intertwining beauty. Both were 

young, 
And one as my Madonna-dream was 

fair; 
And she the garland from the other's 

hair 
Caught with a cunning hand, and poised, 

and flung. 



A fragrant ring of jasmine flowers, it 

sped, 
Dropping their elfin trumpets in its 

flight, 
And downward circling, on my startled 

head 
Some angel bade the diadem alight ! 
The cool green leaves and breathing 

blossoms white 
Embraced my brow with dainty, mute 

caress : 
I stood in rapt amazement, soul and 

sight 
Surrendered to that vision's loveliness. 



She, too, stood, smitten with the won- 
drous chance 
Whereby the freak of her unwitting 

hand 
A stranger's forehead crowned. I saw 

her stand, 
Most like some flying Hour, that, in her 

dance 
Perceives a god, and drops her courser's 

rein : 
Then, while I drank the fulness of her 

glance, 
Crept over throat and cheek a bashful 

stain, — 
She fled, yet flying turned, and looked 

again. 



And I went forward, consecrated, blest, 
A.nd garlanded like seme returning Faun 



From Pan's green revels in the wood 

land's breast. 
Here was a crown to give Ambition rest 
A wreath for infant Love to slumber on 
And blended, both in mine enchantment 

shone, 
Till Love was only F'ame familial 

grown, 
And Fame but Love triumphantly ex 

pressed ! 



Such moments come to all whom Art 
elects 

To serve her, — Poet, Fainter, Sculptor 
feel, 

Once in their lives the shadows which 
conceal 

Achievement lifted, and the world's neg- 
lects 

Are spurned behind them, like the idle 
dust » 

Whirled from Hyperion's golden chariot- 
wheel : 

Once vexing doubt is dumb, and long 
disgust 

Allayed, and Time and Fate and Fame 
are just! 



It is enough, if underneath our rags 
A single hour the monarch's purple 

shows. 
In dearth of praise no true ambition 

flags, 
And by his self-belief the student knows 
The master : nor was ever wholly dark 
The Artist's life. Though timid fortune 

lags 
Behind his hope, there comes a day to 

mark 
The late renown that round his name 

shall close. 



I dared not question my prophetic pride, 
But entered Florence as a conqueror, 
To whom should ope the Tribune's 

sacred door, 
Hearing his step afar. On every side 
Great works fed faith in greatness thai 

endured 
Irrecognition, patient to abide 
Neglect that stung, temptations that 

allured, — 
Supremely proud and in itself secured 



THE ARTIST. 



257 



LVII. 

From the warm bodies Titian loved to 

paint, 
Where life still palpitates in languid 

glow ; 
From Raphael's heads of Virgin and of 

Saint, 
Bright with divinest message ; from the 

slow 
And patient grandeur Leonardo wrought; 
From soft, effeminate Carlo Dolce, faint 
With vapid sweetness, to the Titan 

thought 
That shaped the dreams of Michel An- 

gelo : 



From each and all, through varied 

speech, I drew 
One sole, immortal revelation. They 
No longer mocked me with the hopeless 

view 
Of power that with them died, but gave 

anew 
The hope of power that cannot pass 

away 
While Beauty lives : the passion of the 

brain 
Demands possession, nor shall yearn in 

vain : 
Its nymph, though coy, did never yet 
" betray. 



It is not much to earn the windy praise 

That fans our early promise : every 
child y F y 

Wears childhood's grace: in unbeliev- 
ing days 

One spark of earnest faith left undefiled 

Will burn and brighten like the lamps 
of old, 

And men cry out in haste : " Behold, a 
star!'" 

Deeming some glow-worm light, that 
soon is cold, 

The radiant god's approaching avatar ! 



So I was hailed : and something fawn- 
like, shy, 

taught from the loneliness of mountain- 
glens, 

That clung around me, drew the stran- 
ger's eye 

Aud held my life apart from other men's. 
17 



Their prophecies were sweet, and if thej 
breathed 

But ignorant hope and shallow pleas- 
ure, I 

No less from them already saw be- 
queathed 

The crown by avaricious C lory wreathed. 



And, climbing up to San Miniato's 

height, 
Among the cypresses I made a nest 
For wandering fancy : down the shim- 
mering west 
The Arno slid in creeping coils of light : 
O'er Boboli's fan-like pines the city lay 
In tints that freshly blossomed on the 

sight, 
Enringed with olive-orchards, thin and 

g^ay, 
Like moonlight falling in the lap of day. 



There sprang, before me, Giotto's ivory 

tower ; 
There hung, a planet, Brunelleschi'a 

dome : 
Of living dreams Val d'Arno seemed 

the home, 
From far Careggi's dim-seen laurel 

bower 
To Bellosguardo, smiling o'er the vale ; 
And pomp and beauty and supremest 

power, 
Blending and brightening in their brida* 

hour, 
Made even the blue of Tuscan summers 

pale! 

LXIII. 

Immortal Masters ! Ye who drank this 

air 
And made it spirit, as the must makes 

wine, 
Be ye the intercessors of my prayer, 
Pure Saints of Art, around her holy 

shrine ! 
The purpose of your lives bestow on 

mine, — 
The child-like heart, the true, laborious 

hand 
And pious vision, — that my soul may 

dare 
One day to climb the summits where y« 

stand ! 



258 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



Say, shall my memory walk in yonder 
street 

Beside your own, ye ever-living shades ? 

Shall pilgrims come, gray men and pen- 
sive maids, 

To pluck this moss because it knew my 
feet, 

And forms of mine move o'er the poet's 
mind 

In thoughts that still to haunting music 
beat, 

And Love and Grief and Adoration find 

Their speech in pictures I shall leave 
behind 1 



Ah ! they, the Masters, toiled where I 

but dreamed ! 
The crown was ready ere they dared to 

claim 
One leaf of honor : then, around them 

gleamed 
No Past, where rival souls of splendid 

name 
At once inspire and bring despair of 

fame. 
A naked heaven was o'er them, where 

to set 
Their kindled stars ; and thus the palest 

- yet 
Exalted burns o'er all that later came. 



They unto me were gods : for, though I 

felt 
That nobler 't was, creating, even to fail 
Than grandly imitate, my spirit knelt, 
Unquestioning, to their authority. 
[ learned their lives, intent to find a tale 
Resembling mine, and deemed my vision 

free 
When most their names obscured with 

flattering veil 
f hat light of Art which first arose in 

me, 



And less for Beauty's single sake in- 
spired 

Than old interpretations to attain, 

I sought with restlass hand and heated 
brain 

Their truth to reach, — by his example 
fired 



"Who sketched his mountain-goats on 

rock or sand, 
And his, the wondrous boy, beneath 

whose hand, 
Conferring sanctity with sweet disdain, 
A cask became a shrine, a hut a fane. 



My studio was the street, the market- 
place : 

I snared the golden spirit of the suu 

Amid his noonday freedom, — swiftly 
won 

The unconscious gift from many a pass- 
ing face, — 

The spoils of color caught from dazzling 
things, 

From unsuspecting forms the sudden 
grace, 

Alive with hope to find the hidden wings 

Of the Divine that from the Human 
springs. 



A jasmine gailand hung above my 
bed, 

Withered and dry : beneath, a picture 
hung, — 

A shadowy likeness of the maid who 
flung 

That crown of welcome. On my sleep- 
ing head 

The glory of the vanished sunset fell, 

And still the leaves reviving fragrance 
shed, 

And dreams crept out of every jasmine- 
bell, . 

Inebriate with their fairy hydromel. 



Where was my lost Armida ? She had 

grown 
A phantom shape, a star of dream*, 

alone ; 
And I no longer dared to touch iho 

dim 
Unfinished features, lest my brush 

should mar 
A memory swift as wings of cherubim 
That unto saints in prayer may flash 

afar 
Up the long steep of rifted cloudy 

walls, 
Wherethrough the overpowering glorr 

falls. 



THE ARTIST. 



259 



LXXI. 

But, as the Rose will lend its excellence 
To the unlovely earth in which it grows, 
Until the sweet earth says, " I serve the 

Rose," 
So, penetrant with her was every sense. 
She filled me as the moon a sleeping 

sea, 
That shows the nigh J her orh reflected 

thence, 
Yet deems itself all darkness : silently 
The dream of her hetrayed itself in me. 



1 had a cherished canvas, whereupon 
An antique form of inspiration grew 
To other life : beneath a sky of blue, 
Filled with the sun and limpid yet with 

dawn, 
A palm-tree rose : its glittering leaves 

were bowed 
As though to let no ray of sunlight 

through 
Their folded shade, and kept the early 

dew 
On all the flowers within its hovering 

cloud. 



Madonna's girlish form, arrested there 
With poising foot, and parted lips, and 

eyes 
With innocent wonder bright and glad 

surprise, 
And hands half-clasped in rapture or in 

prayer, 
Met the Announcing Angel. On her 

sight 
He burst in splendor from the sunny 

air, 
Making it dim around his perfect light, 
And in his hand the lily-stem he bare. 



Nought else, save, nestling near the 

Virgin's feet, 
A single lamb that wandered from its 

flock, 
A.nd one white dove, upon a splintered 

rock 
ik.boY<\ the yawning valleys, dim with 

heat. 
Beyond, the lifted hihs of Gilead flung: 
Their phantom shadows on the burning 

veil, 



And, far away, one solitary, pale 
Vermilion cloud above the Desert hung. 



LXXV. 

I painted her, a budding, spotless maid, 
That has not dreamed of man, — for 

God's high choice 
Too humble, yet too pure to be afraid, 
And from the music of the Angel's voice 
And from the lily's breathiug heart of 

gold 
Inspired to feel the mystic beauty laiJ 
Upon her life : the secret is untold, 
Unconsciously the message is obeyed. 



Hoav much I failed, myself alone could 

know ; 
How much achieved, the world. My 

picture took 
Its place with others in the public show, 
And many passed, and some remained 

to look. 
While I, in flushed expectancy and 

fear, 
Stood by to watch the gazers come and 

go, 
To note each pausing face, perchance to 

hear 
A careless whisper tell me Fame was 

near. 



" 'T is Ghirlandajo's echo ! " some would 

say ; 
And others, "Here one sees a pupil's 

hand : " 
" An innovation, crude, but fairly 

planned," 
Remarked the connoisseur, and moved 

away, 
Sublimely grave : but one, sometimes, 

would stand 
Silent, with brightening face. No more 

than this, 
Though voiceless praise, ambition cou d 

demand, 
And for an hour I felt the Artist's bliss 



One day, a man of haughty port drev 
nigh, — 

A man beyond his prime, but still un- 
bent, 



m 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



Though the first flakis of age already 
lent 

Their softness to his brow : his wander- 
ing eye 

Allowed its stately patronage to glide 

Along the pictures, till, with gaze in- 
tent 

He fixed on mine, aid startled wonder- 
ment 

Displaced his air of cold, indifferent 
pride. 



" Signor Marchese ! " cried, approaching, 

one 
Who seemed a courtly comrade, " can it 

be 
That in these daubs the touch of Art 

you see, — 
These foreign moons that ape our native 

sun 1 " 
To whom he said : " the Virgin, Count ! 

'T is she, 
My Clelia ! like a portrait just begun, 
W here the design is yet but half avowed, 
And shimmers on you through a misty 

cloud : 



" So, here, I find her. 'T is a marvel- 
lous chance. 
Your painters choose some peasant 

beauty's face 
For their Madonnas, striving to enhance 
By softer tints her coarse plebeian grace 
To something heavenly. Here, the 

features wear 
A. noble stamp : who painted this, is 

fit 
That Clelia's self beside his canvas sit, — 
Mis hand, methinks, might fix her 
shadow there." 



'T is true, — you wed her then, as I 

have heard, 
And to the young Colonna 1 " " Even 

so : 
We made the family compact long ago. 
A wilful blade, they say, but every 

bird 
\s wiser when he owns a nested mate ; 
And I shall lose her ere the winter's 

snow 
Falls on the Apenniue, — a father's fate ! 
But from these two my house again 

may grow. 



" She lost, her picture in the lonely hall 

Shall speak, from silent lips, her sweet 
' good-night ! ' 

And soothe my childless fancy. I'll in- 
vite 

This painter to the work : his brush has 
all 

The graces of a hand which takes de 
light 

In noble forms, — and thus may best re- 
call, 

Though nameless he, what Palma's brush 
divine 

Found in the beauteous mothers of her 
line ! " 



I heard ; but trembling, turned away to 

hide 
An ecstasy no longer to be quelled, — 
The lover's longing and the artist's 

pride : 
For, though the growing truth of life 

dispelled 
My rash ideal, my very blood had caught 
The fine infection : from my heart it 

welled, 
Colored each feeling, perfumed every 

thought, 
And gave desire what hope had left un 

sought ! 



'T was blind, unthinking rapture. Who 

was she, 
Pandolfo's daughter, young Colonna's 

bride, 
The pampered maiden of a house of 

pride, 
That I, though but in thought, should 

bend the knee 
Before her beautv ? She was set too 

high, 
And her white lustre wore patrician 

stains, 
Like sunshine falling through heraldic 

panes 
That rise between the altar and the skj 



Next day the Marquis came. With an 

tique air 
Of nicest co irtesy, his words did sue 



THE ARTIST. 



!61 



The while his tone commanded : could 

I spare 
Borne hours? — a portrait only, it was 

true, 
But the Great Masters painted portraits 

too, 
Even llaffaello : at his palace, then ! 
The Lady Clelia would await me there : 
His thanks, — to-morrow, shculd it be"? 

— at ten. 



But when the hour approached, and o'er 

me hung 
The shadow of the high Palladian walls, 
My heart heat fast in feverish intervals : 
I half drew back : the lackeys open flung 
The brazen portals, — broad before me 

rose 
The marble stairs, — above them gleamed 

the halls, 
And I ascended, as a man who goes 
To see some unknown gate of life un- 
close. 



LXXXVII. 

They bore my easel to a spacious room 
Whose northern windows curbed the 

eager day, 
But under them a sunny garden lay : 
A fountain sprang : the myrtles were in 

bloom, 
And I remembered, — " ere the winter's 

snow 
Cloaks Apennine" Colonna bears away 
Iler who shall wear them. 'T is a wom- 
an's doom, 
I laughed, — she seeks no other : let her 
go! 

LXXXVIII. 

Lo ! rustling forward with a silken sound, 
Her living self advanced ! — as fair and 

frail 
As May's first lily in a Northern vale, 
As light in airy grace, as when she 

crowned 
Her painter's head, — the Genius of my 

Fame ! 
Vh, words are vain where Music's tongue 

would fail, 



And Color's brightest miracles be found 
Imperfect, cold, to match her as she 
came! 



The blood that gathered, stifling, at my 

heart, 
Surged back again, and burned on chjek 

and brow. 
" Your model ! " smiled the Marquis , 

" you '11 avow 
That she is not unworthy of your art. 
I see you note the likeness, — it is 

strange : 
But since you dreamed her face so near- 
ly, now 
You '11 paint it, — as she is, — I want 

no change : " 
Then left, with wave of hand and stately 

bow. 



A girlish wonder dawned in Clelia's face. 

Her frank, pure glances seemed to ques- 
tion mine, 

Or scanned my features, seeking to re- 
trace 

Her way to me along some gossamer 
line 

Of memory, almost found, then lost 
again. 

Meanwhile, I set my canvas in its place, 

Recalled the artist-nature, though with 
pain, 

And tamed to work the tumult of my 
brain. 



" I give you trouble," then she gently 

said. 
My brow was damp, my hand unsteady. 

" Nay," 
I answered : " 't is the grateful price I 

pay 

For that fair wreath you cast upon my 

head." 
She started, blushing : all at once she 

found 
The shining clew, — her silvery laughter 

made 
The prelude to her words : " the fiowers 

will fade, 
But by your hand am I forevei 

crowned J " 



262 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



BOOK II. 

THE WOMAN. 



Oh give not Beauty to an artist's eye 
And deem his heart, untroubled, can 

withstand 
iler necromancy, changing earth and 

sky_ 
To one wide net wherein her captives 

lie! — 
Nor, since his mind the measure takes, 

his hand 
Essays the semblance of each hue and 

line, 
That cold his pulses beat, as if he 

scanned 
Her marble death and not her life di- 
vine ! 



How could I view the sombre-shi.ing 

hair 
Without the tingling, passionate wish 

to feel 
Its silken smoothness 1 How the golden- 
pale 
Pure oval of the face, the forehead 

fair, 
The light of eyes whose dusky depths 

conceal 
Love's yet unkindled torch, and wear 

the mail 
Of cruel Art, that bade me mimic bliss 
And only paint the mouth I burned to 

kiss ? 



b . near, the airy wave her voice set 

free 
^mote warm against my cheek ! So 

near, I heard 
The foldfi that hid her bosom, as they 

stirred 
(Vbove the heart-beat measuring now, 

for me, 
Life's oaly music! Ah, so near, and 

yet 
Between us rose a wall I could not see, 
To danh me back, — before the wings 

that fret 
For leve's release, a crystal barrier set. 



I kissed, in thought, each clear, delif ic is 
tint 

That lured my mocking hand : my pa& 
sion flung 

Its lurking sweetness over every print 

Of the soft brush that to her beauty 
clung, 

And fondled while it toiled, — and day 
by day _ 

The canvas brightened with her bright- 
ening face : 

The artist gloried in the picture's grace, 

But, ah ! the lover's chances lapsed 
away. 



And now, — ■ the last ! The grapes al- 
ready wore 
Victorious nurple, ere their trodden 

death , 
The olives darkened through their 

branches hoar, 
And from below the tuberose's breath 
Died round the casement, from the spicy 

shore 
Of ripened summer, passionate as the 

sigh 
I stifled : and my heart said, — " Speak 

or die ! 
The moment's fate stands fixed forever 

more." 

VI. 

The naked glare of breezeless after- 
noon 
Dazzled without: the garden swooned 

in heat. 
The old duenna drooped her head, and 

soon 
Behind the curtain slumbered in hex 

seat. 
Within my breast the crowded, panting 

beat 
Disturbed my hand : the pencil fell ; 1 

turned, 
And with imploring eyes and tears thai 

burned 
Sank in despairing silence at her . A „ 



THE WOMAN. 



265 



I did not dare look up, but knelt, as 
waits 

A foiled tyrannicide the headsman's 
blow : 

At first n frightened hush, — the 
stealthy, slow, 

Soft rustle of her dress, — a step like 
Fate's 

To crown or smite : but now descended, 
where 

Tier garland fell, her hand upon my 
hair, 

And, light as floating leaf of orchard- 
snow 

Looted by the pulse of Spring, it trem- 
bled there. 



VIII. 

Then I looked up, — Oh, grace of God ! 

to feel 
Her answering tears like dew upon my 

brow ; 
To touch and kiss her blessing hand; 

to seal 
Without a word the one eternal vow 
Of man and woman, when their lives 

unite 
Thenceforth forever, soul and body 

shared, 
Like those the Grecian goddess, pitying, 

paired 
To form the young, divine Hermaphro- 
dite. 

IX. 

I breathed " You do not love Colonna ? " 
"No," 

She whispered, "aid me, I am yours to 
save ! " 

' I yours to help, your lover and your 
slave, — 

My soul, my blood is yours," I mur- 
mured low. 

The old duenna stirred : " when 1 where? 
one hour 

For your commands ! " As hurriedly 
she gave 

Reply ; " The garden, — yonder dark- 
est bower, 

When midnight tolls frcm Santa Croce's 
tower ! " 



Ere the immortal light had time to fade 
In cither's eyes, the old Marchese came. 



I veiled, in toil, the flush that still be- 
trayed, 

And Clelia, strong to hide her maiden 
shame, 

The motion of her father's hand obeyed 

And left us. Gravely he my work sur- 
veyed : 

" 'T is done, I think, — 't is she, indeed." 
he said : 

" 'T was time," he muttered, as he turned 
his head. 



I bowed in silence, took his offered gold, 
And down the marble stairs, through 

doors that cried, 
On scornful hinges, of their owner's 

pride, 
Passed on my way : my happy heart did 

fold 
Pandolfo's treasure in its secret hold, 
And every bell that chimed the feeble 

day 
Down to its crimson burial, seemed to 

say: 
" Not yet, not yet, for Love our tongues 

have tolled ! " 



More slowly rolled the silver disk above 

The hiding hills, than ever moon came 
up: 

The sky's begemmed and sapphire-tim< d 
cup 

Spilled o'er its dew, and Heaven in nup- 
tial love 

Stretched forth his mystic arms, and 
crouched beside 

The yearning Earth, his dusky-featun-d 
bride : 

The pulses of the Night began to move, 

And Life's eternal secret ruled the tide. 

XIII. 

Along the shadow of the garden-walls 
I crept: the streets were still, or onlj 

beat 
To wavering echoes by unsteady feet 
Of wine-flushed revellers from banquet 

halls. 
T jey saw me not : the yielding door I 

gained, 
And glided down a darksome alley, sweet 
With slumbering roses, to the shy retreat 
Of bashful bliss and yearning unpro- 

faned. 



264 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



XIV. 

The amorous odors 2>f the moveless 
air, — 

Jasmine and tuberose and gillyflower, 

Carnation, heliotrope, and purpling 
shower 

Of Persian roses, — kissed my senses 
there 

Tc keenest passion, clad my limbs with 
power 

Like some young god's, when at the ban- 
quet first 

lie drinks fre^h deity with eager thirst, — 

And midnight rang from Santa Croee's 
tower ! 



She came ! a stealthy, startled, milk- 
white fawn, 
Thridding the tangled bloom : a balmy 

wave 
Foreran her coming, and the blushful 

dawn 
Of Love its culor to the moonlight gave, 
And Night grew splendid. In a trance 

divine, 
Hand locked in hand, with kissing pulse, 

we clung, 
Then heart to heart ; and all her being 

flung 
Its sweetness to the lips, and mixed with 

mine. 

XVI. 

Immortal Hour, whose starry torch did 
guide 

Eternal Love to his embalmed nest 

In virgin bosoms, — Hour, supremely 
blest 

Beyond thy sisters, lift thy brow in pride, 

And say to her whose muffled beams in- 
vest 

The bed where Strength lies down at 
Beauty's side, 

' Before my holier lamp thy forehead 
hide : 

'xive up thy crown: the joy I bring is 
best ! " 

XVII. 

' saved, not lost, — Madonna, bless thy 

child ! " 
She murmured then; and I as fondly, 

" Death 
Come now, and close my over-happy 

breath 
On sacred lips, that shall not be defiled 



By grosser kisses ! " " Eail me not," 

she said, 

And clung the closer, — " God is over- 
head, 

And hears you." " Yea," I whispered 
wild, 

"And may His thunder strike the false 
one dead ! " 

XVIII. 

No thought had she of lineage or of 

place : 
Love washed the colors from her blaz- 
oned shield 
To make a mirror for her lover's face, 
Unto patrician ignorance revealed 
The bliss to give, the ecstasy to yield, 
And now, descended from her stately 

dream, 
She trod the happy level of her race, 
In perfect, sweet surrender, faith su- 
preme. 



With cautious feet, in dewy sandals 

shod, 
And sidelong look, the perfumed Hours 

went by ; 
Until the azure darkness of the sky 
Withered aloft, and shameless Morning 

trod ' 
Her clashing bells. Our paradise was 

past, 
And yet to part was bitterer than to 

die. 
We rose : we turned : we held each other 

fast, 
Each kiss the fonder as it seemed the 

last. 



happy Earth ! To Love's triumphant 

heart 
Thou still art convoyed by the singing 

stars 
That hailed thy birth : Heaven's beau- 
teous counterpart, 
No shadow dims thee, no convulsion 

mar3 
Thy fair green bosom : on thy forehead 

shine 
The golden lilies of the bridegroom 

Day, 
Thy hoary forests take the bloom of 

May, 
Thy seas the sparkle of the autumn 

wine! 



THE WOMAN. 



265 



XXI. 

Serenely beautiful, the brightening morn 
Led on the march of mine enchanted 

round 
Of days, wherein the world was freshly 

born, 
And men with primal purity recrowned : 
So deep my drunkenness of heart and 

brain, 
That Art, o'ershadowed, sat as if forlorn 
Jn Love's excess of glory, and in vain 
Essayed my old allegiance to regain. 



She to the regions o'er our lives unfurled 
Is turned : from that Avhich never is, she 

draws 
Her best achievements and her finest 

laws, 
And more enriches than she owes, the 

world, — 
Whence, leading Life, she rules ; till 

Life, in turn, 
Feels in its veins the warmer ether burn, 
Asserts itself, and bids its service pause, 
To be the beauty it was vowed to earn ! 



And my transfigured heart no baby-love, 
With dimpled face, had taken to its nest, 
But that Titanic, pre-Olympian guest, 
The elder god, who bears his slaves 

above 
The fret of Time, the frowns of Circum- 
stance ; 
And, twin with Will, engendered in my 

breast 
A certain vision of a life in rest, 
And love secured against the shocks of 
chance. 



It was enough to feel his potent arm 

Lift me aloft, like giant Christopher, 

Above the flood. Could he the dragon 
charm 

Whose fanged and gilded strength still 
guarded her ? 

The crumbling pride of twice three hun- 
dred years, 

Irembling in dotage at the ghost of 
harm, 

Could he subdue ? Ah, wherefore sum- 
■mon fears 

To rex the faith that never reappears ! 



But she the more, whose swift-approach- 
ing Lite 

Shamed the exulting bliss that made me 
free, 

And clouded hers, thereon did meditate. 

When next she met me at the garden- 
gate, 

Its chilling shadow fell upon me 
"See!" 

She said, and dangled in the balmy dark 

(The moon was down) a chain of jewel- 
ry, 

That, snake-like, burned with many a 
diamond spark. 



" His bridal gift ! " she whispered : " he 

will come, 
Erelong, to claim me. Speech, and tears, 

and prayer, 
Are vain my father's will to overbear, 
And better were it, had my lips been 

dumb. 
Incredulous, he heard with wondering 

stare 
My pleading : ' keep me, father, at your 

side ! 
I will not be that wanton prince's 

bride, — 
Unwed, your lonely palace let me share ! ' 



"Much more I said, not daring to re- 
veal 

Our secret; but, alas ! I spoke in vain. 

He coldly smiled and raised me : 'do 
not kneel, — 

'T is useless : here 's a pretty, childish 
rain 

For nothing, but the sun will shine anon. 

What ails the girl? the compact shall 
remain. 

Pandolfo's name is not so newly won, 

That we can smutch it, and not feel the 
stain.' 



" He spoke my doom ; but death were 

sweeter now, 
Since, my best-beloved, life alone 
Is where your eyes, your lips, can meet 

ny own, 
And Heaven commands, that registered 

your vow, 



266 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



To save me, and fulfil it ! " Then, 
around 

My neck her white, imploring arms were 
thrown ; 

Her heart beat in mine ears with plain- 
tive sound, 

So close and piteously she held me 
bound. 

XXIX. 

Ah me ! 't was needless further to re- 
hearse 

The old romance, that life has ne'er be- 
lied, 

The old offence which love repeats to 
pride, — 

The strife, the supplication, and the 
curse 

Hung like a thunder-cloud above the 
dawn, 

To threat the day : it better seemed, to fly 

Beyond the circle of that sullen sky, 

And storms let idly loose when we were 
gone. 

XXX. 

" Darling," I answered, staking all my 

fate 
On the sole chance within my beggared 

hands, — 
" Darling, the wealth of love is my es- 
tate, 
Save one poor home, that in a valley 

stands, 
Cool, dark, and lonesome, far beyond 

the line 
Of wintry peaks that guard the summer 

lands ; 
But shelter safe, though y&lev suns may 

shine, 
And Paradise, when once 't is yours and 

mine ! 



" See ! I am all I give : I cannot ask 
That you should leave the laurel and the 

rose, 
And halls of yellowing marble, meant 

to bask 
In endless sun, and airs of old repose 
That fan the beauteous ages, elsewhere 

lost, — 
1' 2 SC: the world put on its deathly 

mask 
Of low, gray sky and ever-deepening 

snows, 
^.nd dip its bowers in darkness and in 

frost." 



XXXII. 

"Nay, let" (she cried) "his mellow 

marbles shine 
In Roman noons, — his fountains flap 

the airs, 
And rank and splendor crowd his gilded 

stairs, 
Wait in his halls, or drink his banquet- 
wine, — 
So ne'er the hateful pomp I spurn be 

mine; 
But take me, love ! for ah, the father, 

too, 
Who for his early claims my later cares, 
Is leagued with him, — and I am left to 

yon ! " 



<; So, then, shall Summer cross the Al- 
pine chain 

And scare the autumn crocus from the 
meads ; 

And the wan naiads, 'mid their brittle 
reeds, 

Feel the chill wave its languid pulse re- 
gain, 

Wooing the azure brook-flowers into 
bloom 

To greet your coming ; and the golden 
rain 

Of beechen forests shall your path il- 
lume, 

Till the Year's bonfire burn away its 
gloom ! " 



Thus, at her words, my sudden rapture 

threw 
Its glory on the scene so bleak before, 
As to the nightly mariner a shore 
That out of hollow darkness slowly 

grew, 
Seeming huge cliffs that menaced with 

the roar 
Of hungry surf, when Morning lifts her 

torch 
Flashes at once to gardens dim with dew, 
And homes and temples fair with pil 

lared porch. 

XXXV. 

"Away!" was Love's command, and 

"we obeyed ; 
And Chance assisted, ere three times tin 

sun 



THE WOMAN. 



267 



Looked o'er the planet's verge, that 
swiftly spun 

To bring the hour so perilously delayed 

My fortune with Colonna's now was 
weighed ; 

But that brief time of love's last lib- 
erty — 

Pandolfo called to Rome, ere aught be- 
trayed 

His daughter's secret — turned the scale 
to me. 



My mules were waiting by the city gate, 
With Gianni, quick to lead a lover's 

fate 
Along the bridle-paths of Apennine, — 
A gallant contadino, whom 1 knew 
Prom crown to sole, each joint and clear- 
drawn line 
Of plaited muscle, healthy, firm, and 

true ; 
And midnight 'struck, as from the gar- 
den came 
She who forsook for me her home and 
name. 



With them she laid aside her silken shell 
And jewel-sparks, and chains of moony 

pearl, — 
Bright, babbling toys, that of her rank 

might tell, — 
And wore, to cheat the drowsy sentinel, 
The scarlet bodice of a peasant-girl, 
Her wealth the golden dagger in her 

hair : 
The haughty vestures from her beauty 

fell, 
Leaving her woman, simply pure and 

fair. 



The gate was passed : before us, through 
the night, 

We traced the dusky road, and far away, 

Where ceased the stars, we knew the 
mountains lay. 

There must we climb before their shoul- 
ders, white 

With autumn rime, should redden to the 
day ; 

But now a line of faintly-scattered light 

Plays o'er the dust, and the C.l olives 
calls 

To ghostly life above the orchard-walls,. 



A little chapel, built by pious hand- 1 , 
That foot-sore pilgrims from the blister 

ing soil 
May turn, or laborers from summer toil 
To rest that breathes of God, it open 

stands ; 
And there her shrine with daily fiowci 

is drest, 
Her lamp is nightly trimmed and ted 

with oil, 
The Mater Dolorosa, in whose breast, 
Bleeding, the seven swords of woe aro 

pressed. 



" Stay ! " whispered Clelia, as the nar- 
row vault 

Yawned with its faded frescoes, and the 
lamp 

Revealed, untouched by rust or blurred 
with damp, 

The Virgin's face : it beckoned us to 
hart 

And lay our love before her feet divine, 

A priestless sacrament, — so kneeling 
there 

In self-bestowed espousal, Clelia's prayei 

Spake to the Mother's heart her trust in 
mine. 



" Sorrowing Mother ! Heaven's ex- 
alted Queen ! 
Star of the Sea ! Lily among the 

Thorns ! 
Clothed with the sun, while round Thy 

feet serene 
The crescent planet curves her silver 

horns, 
Be Thou my star to still this trembling 

sea 
Within my bosom, — let the love that 

mourns 
One with the love that here rejoices, be, 
Soothed in Thy peace, acceptable to 

Thee! 

XLII. 

" Thou who dost hide the maiden's vir- 
gin fear 

In thine enclosed garden, Fountain 
sealed 

Of Woman's holiest secrets, bend Thine 
ear 

To these weak words of one whose heart 
m'-.st yield 



268 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



This temple of the body Thou didst 
wear 

To love, — and by Thy pity, oft re- 
vealed, 

Pure Priestess, hearken to Thy daugh- 
ter's prayer, 

And bless the bond, of other blessing 
bare! 

XLIII. 

" Mother of Wisdom, in whose heart 

are thrust 
The seven swords of Sorrow, in whose 

pain 
Thy chaste Divinity draws near again 
To maids and mothers, crying from the 

dust, — 
Who ne'er forgettest any human woe, 
Once doubly Thine, Thy grace and 

comfort show, 
And perfect make, Star above the 

Sea, 
These nuptial pledges, only heard by 

Thee ! " 

XLIV. 

Then Clelia's hand entrusted she to 

mine, 
Who knelt beside her, and the vow she 

spake, 
Weeping : " I take him, Mother, at Thy 

shrine. 
Home, country, father, leave I for his 

sake, 
Give my pure name, my maiden honor 

break 
For him, my spouse ! " And I : " I give 

my life, 
Chaste, faithful to the end, to her, my 

wife, 
Whom here, Mother, at Thy hands I 

take ! " 



Thus, ir. the lack of Earth's ordaining 
rite, 

Did our own selves our union conse- 
crate ; 

But God was listening from the hollow 
Night. 

Beyond the stars we felt his smile create 

Dawn in the doubtful twilight of our 
fate : 

Peace touched our hearts and sacredest 
content : 

The veil was lifted from our perfect 
light 

i)i nuptial love, pure-burning, reverent. 



The Sorrowing Mother gazed. So pur 

the kiss 
I gave, Her own divinest lips had ta'en 
From mine no trace of sense-reflected 

stain ; 
But Gianni called us from the dream of 

bliss. 
" Haste, Signor, haste ! " he cried : " the 

Bear drops low : 
Soon will the cocks in all the gardens 

crow 
The morning watch : day comes, and 

night again, 
But come to part, not mate, unless vou 

go!"" ' 



Then silent, side by side, we forward 

fled 
Through the chill airs of night : each 

falling hoof 
Beat like a flail beneath the thresher's 

roof, 
In quick, unvarying time : and rosy- 
red 
Crept o'er the gray, as nimbly Gianni 

led 
Our devious flight along the barren 

steeps, 
Till, far beyond the sinking, misty 

deeps, 
The sun forsook his Adriatic bed. 

XLVIII. 

There is a village perched, as you 

emerge 
From the Santerno's long and winding 

vale 
Towards Imola, upon the cliffy verge 
Of the last northern prop of Apen 

nine, — 
Old, yellow houses, hinting many a tale 
Of ducal days and Este's tragicline, 
And over all uplifted, orange pale 
Against the blue, a belfry slim and fine 



With weary climbing of the rocky stair 
Thither we came, and in a hostel rude 
Sat down, outworn, to breathe securer 

air, 
Our guide dismissed, nor eyes that might 

intrude, 
Among the simple inmates of the place 



THE WOMAN. 



260 



The brightest stars of heaven watched 

o'er us there 
In sweet conjunction, every dread to 

chase, 
To close the Past, and make the Future 

fair. 



Ah, had we dared to linger in that 

nest, — 
To watch from under overhanging eaves, 
The loaded vines, the poplars' twinkling 

leaves, — 
Afar, the breadth of the Romagna's 

breast 
And Massa's, Lugo's towers, — the little 

stir 
Of innocent life, caress and be caressed, 
Rank, Art, and Fame among the things 

that were, 
And all her bliss in me, as mine in her ! 



But Florence was too near : my purpose 

held 
To bear and hide our happiness afar 
In the dark mountains, lonely, greenest- 

delled ; 
And still, each night, the never-setting 

star 
We followed took in heaven a loftier 

stand, — 
Sparkled on other rivers, other towns, 
Glinting from icy horns and snowy 

crowns 
Until we trod the green Bavarian land ! 

III. 

And evermore, behind us on the road, 

Pursuit, a phantom, drove. If we de- 
layed, 

Some coward pulse our meeting bosoms 
frayed ; 

Lur tale the breezes blew, the sunshine 
glowed ; 

The stars our secret ecstasies betrayed : 

Prunk with our passion's vintage, we 
must fill 

The cup too full, and tremble lest it 
spill, — 

Obeying, thus, the law we would evade. 



Now, from that finer ether sinking down 
Into the humble, universal air, 



The images oi many a human care 
That, wren-like, build beneath the thatch 

of love, 
Came round us. O'er the watery levels, 

brown 
With autumn stubble, ihe departing cIctc 
Cooed her farewell to summer : rain) 

cold 
Through rocky gates the yellow Danube 

rolled. 



Grim were the mountains, with their 

dripping pines 
Plan ted in sodden moss, and swiftly o'er 
Their crests the clouds their flying 

fleeces tore : 
The herd-boy, from his lair of furze and 

vines 
Peered out, beside his dogs ; and forms 

uncouth, 
The axemen, from the steeps descend- 
ing, wore 
The strength of manhood, but its grace 

no more, — 
The lust, without the loveliness, of 

youth ! 

LV. 

The swollen streams careered beside us, 

hoarse 
As warning prophets in an evil age, 
And through the stormy fastnesses our 

course, 
Blown, buffeted with elemental rage, 
Fell, with the falling night, to that lonf 

vale 
I pictured, with its meads of crocus 

bloom, — 
Ah me, engulfed and lost in drowning 

gloom, 
The helpless sport and shipwreck of the 

gale ! 



Where now the bright autumnal bon 
fires ? Where 

The gold of beechen woods, the prodiga. 

And dazzling waste of color in its fall ? 

The brook-flowers, bluer than the morn- 
ing-air ? 

" My pomp of welcome mocked you, 
love ! " I sighed : 

" The sign was false, the flattering dream 
denied : 

Unkind is Nature, yet all skies are fair 

To trusting hearts, when once theii 
truth is tried ! " 



270 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



But Clelia shuddered, clinging to my 

heart 
When the low roof received us, and the 

sound 
Of threshing branches boomed and 

whistled round 
Our cot, that stood a little way apart 
Against the forest, from the village 

strayed, 
Where cunning workmen in their pris- 
ons bound 
The roaring Fiend of Fire, and forced 

his aid 
To mould the crystal wonders of their 

trade. 



Poor was our home, and when the rainy 

sky 
Brought forth a child of Night, an 

Ethiop day, 
And still the turbid torrents thundered 

From the drear landscape she would turn 

away, — 
Her thoughts, perchance, where gilded 

Florence lay, — 
To hide a tear, or crush a rising sigh, 
Then sing the sweet Italian songs, where 

run 
Twin rills of words and music into one. 



I, tou, beneath the low-hung rafters, 

saw 
In dusk that filtered through the narrow 

panes, 
My palette spread with colors dull and 

iaw, 
Once ripe and juicy -fresh as blossom- 
stains. 
The dim, beclouded season never brought 
The light that flatters ; but its mists and 

rains 
Like eating rust upon my canvas 

wrought, 
And turned to substance cold the tinted 

thought. 



LX. 

Around me moved a rough and simple 

race 
Whose natures, fresh and uncontami- 

nate, 



Gave truth to life, and smoothed their 
toilful fate 

With honesty and love — but lacked the 
grace 

Of strength allied to beauty, or the free 

Unconscious charm of Southern sym- 
metry, 

And motions measured by a rhythm 
elate 

And joyous as the cadence of the sea. 



For if, at times, among the slaves who 

fed 
The ever-burning kilns, in fiercest glow 
Some naked torso momently would show 
Like Hell's strong angel, dipped in lurid 

red, 
No model this for Saviour, seraph, saint, 
Ensphered in golden ether: Labor's 

taint 
Defaced the form, and here 't were vain, 

I said, 
Some lovely hint to find, and finding, 

paint ! 



Ah, Art and Love ! Immortal brother- 
gods, 

That will not dwell together, nor apart, 

But make your temple in your servant's 
heart 

A house of battle. One his forehead 
nods 

In drowsy bliss, and will not be dis- 
turbed, 

The othei's eager forces work uncurbed, 

Yet most in each the other lives ; and 
each 

Mounts by the other's help his crown to 
reach. 



To Love my debt was greatest : I com- 
pelled 

Back to their sleep the dreams that stung 
in vain, 

And folded Clelia in a love which held 

The heart all fire, although its flame was 
nursed 

By embers borrowed from the smoulder- 
ing brain. 

For her had Art aspired ; but now, re 
versed 

The duty, Art fo>* her must abnegate 

Its restless, proud resolves, and idlj 
wait. 



THE WOMAN. 



271 



The rams had whitened iu the upper 

air, 
And left their ciiill memorials glittering 

now 
On Arber's shoulders, Ossa's horned 

brow ; 
The summer forest of its gold was bare ; 
Loud o'er the changeless pines Novem- 
ber drove 
IJis frosty steeds, through narrowing 

days that wear 
No light; and Winter settled from 

above, 
White, heavy, cold, around our nest of 

love. 



The sportive fantasies of wind and snow, 

The corniced billows which they love to 
pile, 

The ermined woods, with boughs de- 
pending low, 

To buttress frozenly each darksome aisle, 

The spectral hills which twilight veils 
in dun, 

The season's hushing sounds, — my 
Clelia won 

From haunting memories, and stayed 
awhile 

Her homesick pining for the Tuscan 
sun. 



Only, when after briefest day, the moon 
Poured down an icy light, and all around 
Came from the iron woods a crackling 

sound, 
As from the stealthy steps of Cold, and 

soon 
The long-drawn howl of famished wolf 

was heard 
Far in the mountains, like a shuddering 

bird 
Beside my heart a nestling place she 

found, 
And smiled to hear my fond, assuring 

word. 

LXVII. 

So drifted on, till Death's white shadow 



^rom edged air and stony earth, our 
fate : 

Then from the milder cloua and loosen- 
ing blast 

Unto his sunnier nooks returning late, 



Came Life, and let his flowery footprint 

stand. 
Softer than wing of dove, the winds at 

last 
Kissed where they smote ; the skies were 

blue and bland, 
And in their lap reposed the ravished 

land. 



Then tears of gummy cry tal wept tia 

pine, 
And like a phantom plume, the sea-green 

larch 
Was dropped along the mountain's lifted 

arch, 
And morning on the meadows seemed 

to shine, 
All day, in blossoms : cuckoo-songs were 

sweet, 
And sweet the pastoral music of the 

kine 
Chiming a thousand bells aloft, to meet 
The herdsman's horn, the young lamb's 

wandering bleat ! 



LXIX. 

Under the forest's sombre eaves there 
slept 

No darkness, but a balsam-breathing 
shade, 

Rained through with light : the hurry- 
ing waters made 

Music amid the solitude, and swept 

Their noise of liquid laughter from 
afar, 

Through smells of sprouting leaf and 
trampled grass, 

And, thousand tints of flowery bell and 
star, 

To sing the year's one idyl ere it piss! 



And down the happy valleys wandered 

we, 
Released and glad, the children of the 

sun, — 
I by adoption and by nature she, — 
And still our love a riper color won 
From the strong god in whom all colors 

burn. 
The Earth regained her ancient alcl umj 
To cheat our souls with dreams of what 

might be, 
And r.sver is, — yet, wherefore thesa 

unlearn q 



272 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



For they reclothe us with a mantle, lent 
From the bright wardrobe of the Gods : 

the powers, 
The glories of the Possible are ours : 
We breathe the pure, sustaining ele- 
ment 
Above the dust of life, — steal fresh 

content 
From distant gleams of never-gathered 

flowers, — 
Believing, rise : cur very failures wear 
Immortal grace from what we vainly 
dare ! 



From dreams like these is shaped the 
splendid act 

In painters', poets' brains : we let them 
yrow, 

And as the season rolled in richer flow 

To summer, from their waves a won- 
drous fact 

Uprose, and shamed them with diviner 
glow, — 

A tremulous secret, mystic, scarce-con- 
fessed, 

That, star-like, throbs within the coars- 
est breast, 

And sets God's joy beside His creature's 
woe. 



As one mav see, along some April 
_ rill, 

By richest mould and softest dew-fall 
fed, 

The daybreak blossom of a daffodil 

Send from its heart a tenderer blossom 
still, 

Flower bearing flower, so fair a marvel 
shed 

Its bliss on Clelia's being; and she 
smiled 

With those prophetic raptures which ful- 
fil 

'jL S he mother's nature ere she clasps her 
child. 



Between our hearts, embracing both, 
there stole 

A silent Presence, like to that which 
reigns 

In Heaven, when God another world or- 
dains. 

Sere, in its genesis, a formless soul 



Waited the living garment it should 

wear 
Of holiest flesh, though ours were dark 

with stains, — 
Yet clouds that blot the blue, eternal 

air, 
Upon their folds the rainbow's beaut} 

bear ! 

LXXV. 

And none of all the folk we moved 

among 
In that lone valley, whether man or 

maid, 
Or weary woman, prematurely wrung 
To bear the lusty flock that round her 

played, 
But spake to Clelia in a gentler tongue 
And unto her their timid reverence paid, 
As; in her life repeated, one might 

see 
Madonna's pure maternal sanctity ! 

LXXVI. 

All knew the lady, beautiful and tall, -- 

Dark, yet so pale in her strange loveli- 
ness, 

Whom oft they saw with gliding footstep 
press 

The meads, the forest's golden floor ; 
and all 

Knew the enchanted voice, whose alien 
song 

Silenced the mountains, till the wood- 
man lone 

His axe let fall, and dreamed and list- 
ened long, — 

The key-flower plucked, the fairy gold 
his own ! 



LXXVI I. 

Never, they said, did year its bounty 

shower 
S) plenteously upon their fields, as 

now. 
The lady brought their fortune : manv 

a vow 
Would rise to help her in her woman's 

hour 
Of pain and joy, and what their hands- 
could do 
(The will was boundless, though so mean 

the power) 
Was hers, — their queen, the faires* 

thing they knew 
Within the circle of the mountains blue 



THE WOMAN. 



273 



LXXVIII. 

And Autumn came, like him from 
Edom, him 

With garments dyed, from Bozrah, glo- 
rious 

In his apparel ; yet his gold was dim, 

His crimsons pale, beside the splendors 
warm 

Wherewith the ripened time transfigured 
us. 

The precious atoms drawn from heaven 
and earth, 

And rocked by Love's own music into 
form, 

Compacted lived : a soul awaited birth. 

LXXIX. 

A soul was born. The hazy-mantled sun 
Looked in on Clelia, radiant as a saint 
Who triumphs over torture, pale and 

faint 
From parted life, — and kissed the life 

begun 
With tender light, as quick to recognize 
His child, in exile : the unconscious 

one, — 
Stray lamb of heaven, whom tears might 

best baptize, — 
Closed on her happy breast his mother's 

eyes. 



Her eyes they were : her fresh-born 
beauty took 

Its seat in man, that woman's heart 
might bow 

One day, before the magic of that look 

Which conquered man and held him 
captive now. 

The frail and precious mould which 
drew from me 

Naught but its sex, her likeness did en- 
dow 

With breathing grace and witching sym- 
metry, 

As once in baby demigod might be. 



io came from him — as in Correggio's 

" Night " 
The body of the Holy Child illnrres 
The stable dark, the starry Syriar. 

glooms, 
The rapt, adoring faces, — sudden light 
18 



For that dark seasoa when the sun hung 

low; 
And warmth, when eirth again lay cold 

and white ; 
And peace, Love reconciled with Life tc 

know; 
And promise, kindling Art to rosier 

glow. 



Here dawned the inspiration, long d© 
layed, 

The light of loftier fancy. As she 
pressed, 

Cradled against her balmy mother- 
breast, 

The child — a pink on sun kissed lilLs 
laid — 

I saw the type of old achievement won 

In them, the holy hint their forms eon 
veyed : 

And lovelier never God's Elected Maid 

And Goddess-Mother dreamed Urbino's 



But she — when first mine eager hand 

would seize 
Her perfect beauty — troubled grew, 

and pale. 
"Dear Egon, No ! " she said : "my heart 

would fail, 
Alarmed for love that wraps in sancti 

ties 
Its earthly form : for see ! the babe may 

lie 
With white, untainted soul, and in his 

.eye 
The light of Heaven, and pure as al 

mond-flowers 
His dimpling flesh, — but, Egon, he is 

ours ! 



" If blessing may be forfeited, to set 

A child, the loveliest, in the place di- 
vine 

Of Infant God, it were more impious 
yet 

To veil the Mother's countenance in 
mine : 

Ah, how should I, to human love though 
fair, 

Assume her grace and with her pity 
shine, — 

Profane usurpress of her sacred shriiie, 

To cheat the vow and intercept i!;f 
prayer ! " 



274 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



A. woman's causeless fancy ! What I 

said 
I scarce remember, — that the face I 

stole 
Had brought herself, and if the half so 

wrought, 
A surer blessing now must bring the 

whole, 
And laurel cast, not jasmine, on my 

head. 
The profanation was a thing of thought, 
Or touched the artist only: who could 

paint, 
If saint alone dare model be for saint? 



LXXXVI. 

And so, by Art possessed, I would not 
see 

Forebodings which in woman's finer 
sense 

Arise, and draw their own fulfilment 
thence, — 

Light clouds, yet hide the bolts of Des- 
tiny 

And darken life, erelong. I gave, in joy, 

To fleeting grace immortal permanence, 

And dreamed of coming fame for all the 
three, 

Myself, the fairest mother, and the boy ! 



She sat, in crimson robe and mantle 

blue, 
Fondling the child in holy nakedness, 
Resigned and calm, — alas! I could not 

guess 
The hauntiug fear that daily deeper 

grew 
n the sweet face that would its fear 

subdue, 
Nor make my hand's creative rapture 

less: 
Hut cold her kisses to my own replied, 
-Vnd when the work completed stood — 

she sisrhed. 



LXXXVIII. 

.Vnd from that hour a shadow seemed 

to hang 
Around her life : our idyl breathed no 

more 
Its flute-like joy in every strain Sue 

gang: 



Her step the measures of an anthem 

wore, 
That hushes, soothes, yet makes not 

wholly sad ; 
And if, at times, my heart confessed a 

pang 
To note the haunted gleam her features 

had, 
I failed to read the prophecy it bore.. 



Again the summer beckoned from the 
hills, 

And back from Daulis came the night- 
ingale ; 

But when the willows shook by meadow- 
rills 

Their sheeted silver, Clelia's cheek grew 
pale. 

She spoke not ; but I knew her fancy 
said 

So shook the olives now in Arno's vale, 

So flashed the brook along its pebbly bed, 

Through bosky oleanders, roofed with 
red ! 



This cheer I gave : " Be sure my fame 
awaits 

The work of love : this cloud will break, 
and we 

Walk in the golden airs of Tuscany, 

Guarded by that renown which conse- 
crates 

Our fault, if love be such ; and fame 
shall be 

My shield, to shame your father's her- 
aldry, 

And set you in your ancient halls. 
Take heart, 

And as my love you trusted, trust my 
art ! " 



She faintly smiled, — if smile the lipa 

could stir 
Which more of yearning than of hope 

expressed ; 
A filmy mask to hide the warninjr guest 
Of thought which evermore abode in her : 
And then she kissed me, — not, as once, 

with fire 
And lingering sweetness drawn from 

love's desire, 
But soft, as Heaven's angelic messenger 
Might touch the lips of prayer and maki 

them blest ! 



THE CHILD. 



275 



BOOK III. 
THE CHILD. 



Sad Son of Earth, if ever to thy care 
Some god entrust the dazzling gift of 

j°y» 

Within thy trembling hands the burden 

bear 
As if the frailest crystal shell it were, 
One thrill of exultation might destroy! 
Look to thy feet, take heed where thou 

shalt stand, 
And arm thine eyes with fear, thy heart 

with prayer, 
Like one who travels in a hostile land! 



For, ever hovering in the heart of day 
Unseen, above thee Avait the Powers 

malign, 
Who scent thy bliss as vultures scent 

decay : 
Unveil thy secret, give one gladsome 

sign, 
Send up one thought to chant beside 

the lark 
In airy poise, and lo ! the sky is dark 
With swooping wings, — thy gift is 

snatched away 
2re dies the rapture which proclaimed 

it thine ! 



We plan the houses which are never 
built : 

The volumes which our precious thoughts 
enclose 

Are never written : in the falchion's 
hilt 

Sleeps nobler daring than the nero 
shows : 

And never Fate allows a life to give 

The measure of a soul, — but incom- 
plete 

•Expression and imperfect action meet, 

To form the tintless sketch of what we 
live. 



I would not see the path that led apart 

My Clelia's feet, as 'twere on hills oi 
cloud, 

But deemed the saintler light, whereto I 
bowed 

In reverence of mine adoring heart, 

The mother's nature : day by day I 
smiled, 

As higher, further drawn, my dreams 
avowed 

Diviner types of beauty, — whence be- 
guiled, 

Her robes of heaven I wrapped around 
her child. 



Our daily miracle was he : a bud 

Steeped in the scents of Eden, balmy- 
fair, 

The world's pure morning bright upon 
his hair, 

And life's unopened roses in his blood ! 

In the blank eyes of birth a timorous 
star 

Of wonder sparkled, as the soul awoke, 

And from his tongue a brook-like bab- 
bling broke, — 

A strange, melodious language from afar f 



His body showed, in every dimpled swell, 
The pink and pearl of Ocean's loveliest 

shell, 
And swift the little pulses throbbed 

along 
Their turquoise paths, the soft breast 

rose and fell 
As to the music of a dancing song, 

ill th« 

long 
To babyhood, and breathe irom every 

limb, 
Made life more beautiful, revealed ia 

him. 



276 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



His mother's face I dared not paint 

a, r ain, 
For now, infected by her mystic dread, 
The picture smote me with reproachful 

pain ; 
But often, bending o'er his cradle-bed 
To learn by heart the wondrous tints 

and lines 
That charmed me so, my kindling fancy 

said : 
" By thee, my Cherub, shall mine art be 

led 
To clasp the Truth it now but half 

divines ! 

VIII. 

" If I have sinned, to set thee in the 

place 
Of Infant God, the hand that here 

offends 
Shall owe its cunning to thy growing 

grace, 
And from thy loveliness make late 

amends. 
Six summers more, and I shall bid thee 

stand 
Before me, with uplift, prophetic face, 
And there St. John shall grow beneath 

my hand, — 
A bright boy-angel in a desert land ! 



" Six summers more, and then, as Gany- 
mede's, 

Thy rosy limbs against the dark-blue 
sky 

Shall press the eagle's plumage as he 



Or darling Hylas, 'mid Scamander's 

reeds, 
Borrow thy beauty : six again, and I 
Shall from thy lithesome adolescence 

take 
My young St. George, my victor knight, 

and make 
Beneath thy sword once more the 

Dragon die ! 



x. 

" Art thou not mine ! and wilt thou not 
repay 

My love with help unconsciously be- 
stowed ? 

[n thv fresh being, in its bright abode, 



Shall I not find my moming-star, my 
day? 

Rejoice ! one life, at least, shall death- 
less be, — 

One perfect form grow ripe, but not 
decay : 

Through mine own blood shall I my 
triumph see, 

And give to glory what I steal from 
thee ! " 



One day, in indolence of sheer despair, 
I sat with hanging arm, the colors dried 
Upon my palette : sudden, at my side 
Knelt Clelia, lifting through her falling 

hair 
A look that stabbed me with its tearful 

care ; 
And words that came like swiftly-drop- 
ping tears 
Made my heart ache and shiver in mine 

ears, 
As thus in sorrow and in love she cried : 



,f O Egon, mine the fault! I should 
have dared 

Defy the compact, — should have set 
you, love, 

As far in station as in soul above 

These mocking wants — mine idle fort- 
une shared 

"With your achievement ! Coward heart, 
that fled 

The post of righteous battle, and pre- 
pared 

For you, whose hand and brain I could 
not wed, 

Meaning to bless, a martyrdom instead ! 

XIII 

" I hold you back, alas ! when you as- 
pire; 

I chain your spirit when it pants to 
soar : 

I, proud to kindle, glad to feed the fire, 

But heap cold ashes on its fading core ! 

Command me, Egon ! shall I seek the 
sire 

Whose lonely house might welcome ma 
once more, 

And mine — my twain beloved ? Let 
me make 

This late, last trial for our future* 
sake ! " 



THE CHILD. 



277 



XIV. 

" Not thine, my Clelia ! " soothing her, 
I said, 

" Not thine the fault — nor ours ; but 
Demons wait 

To thwart the shining purposes of Fate, 

And not a crown descends on any head 

Ere half its fairest leaves are plucked 
or dead : 

Yet be it as thou wilt, — who bore thee 
thence 

Must in thy father's house thee rein- 
state, 

Or bear — not thou — the weight of his 
offence. 



" Come, thou art pale, and sad, and sick 

for home, 
My summer lily — nursling of the sun ! 
But thou shalt blossom in the breeze of 

Rome, 
And dip thy feet in Baiae's whispering 

foam, 
And in the torn Abruzzi valleys, dun 
With August stubble, watch thy wild 

fawn run, — 
I swear it ! With the melting of the 

snow, 
If Fortune or if Ruin guide, we go ! " 



And soon there came, as 't were an an- 
swering hint 

From heaven, the tardy gold Madonna 
brought, — 

But I unto that end had gladly wrought 

Heart's-blood to coin, and drained the 
ruddy mint 

Of life, again the mellow songs to hear 

That told how sunward turned her 
happy thought : 

That sang to sleep her soul's unbodied 
fear, 

And led her through the darkness of the 
year! 



\las ! 't was not so written. Day by 

day 
tlei cheen. grew thin, her footstep faint 

and slow ; 
And yet so fondly, with such hopefiii 

play 
Her pulses beat, they masked Jhe coming 

woe 



Joy dwelt with her, and in her eagei 
breath 

His cymbals drowned the hollow drums 
of Death : 

Life showered its promise, surer to be- 
tray, 

And the false Future crumbled fast 
away. 

XVIII. 

Aye, she was happy ! God be thanked 

for this, 
That she was happy ! — happier than 

she knew, 
Had even the hope that cheated her been 

true ; 
For from her face there beamed such 

wondrous bliss, 
As cannot find fulfilment here, and dies. 
God's peace and pardon touched me in 

her kiss, 
Heaven's morning dawned and bright- 
ened in her eyes, 
And o'er the Tuscan arched remoter 

skies ! 



Dazzled with light, I could not see the 

close 
So near and dark, and every day that won 
Some warmer life from the returning 

sun, 
Took from the menaces that interpose 
Between the plan and deed. I dared to 

dream 
Her dreams, and paint them lovelier as 

they rose, 
Till from the echoing hollows one wild 

stream 
Sprang to proclaim the melting of the 

snows. 



Then — how she smiled ! And I the 

casement wide 
To that triumphant sound must throw, 

despite 
The bitter air ; and, soothed and satisfied, 
She slept until the middle watch of 

night. 
I watched beside her: dim the taper's 

light 
Before the corner-shrine, — the walls in 

shade 
Glimmered, but through the window all 

was white 
In crystal moonshine, and the wind* 

were laid. 



278 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



XXI. 

And awe and shuddering fell upon my 
soul. 

Out of the silence came, if not a sound, 

The sense of sphery music, far, pro- 
found, 

As Earth, revolving on her moveless 
pole, 

Might breathe to God : and at the case- 
ment shone 

Something — a radiant bird it seemed, — 
alone, 

And beautiful, and strange : its plumes 
around 

Played the soft fire of stars whence it 
had flown. 



The beak of light, the eye of flame, — 

dispread 
The hovering wings, as winnowing 

music out ; 
And richer still the glory grew about 
The shadowy room, crept over Clelia's 

bed 
And hung, a shimmering circle, round 

her head : 
Then marked I that her eyes were wide 

and clear, 
Nor wondered at the vision. All my 

- fear 
Fled w T hen she spoke, and these the 

words she said : 



" Thou call'st, and I am ready. Ah, I 

see 
The shining field of lilies in the moon, 
So white, so fair ! Yet how depart with 

thee, 
And leave the bliss of threefold life so 

soon ? 
Peace, fainting heart ! Though sweet 

it were to stay, 
Sweet messenger, thy summons I obey : 
And now the mountains part, and now 

the free 
Wide ocean gleams beneath a golden 

rla v ! 



" How still they lie, the olive-sandalled 
slopes, 

The gardens and the towers ! But float- 
ing o'er 



Their shaded sleep, lo ! some divinei 
shore, 

Deep down the bright, unmeasured dis- 
tance, opes 

Its breathing valleys : wait for me ! 1 
haste, 

But am not free : till morning let me 
taste 

The last regret of faithful love onre 
more, 

Then shall I walk with thee von lilied 
floor ! " 



The bright Thing fled, the moon went 
down the west. 

Long lay she silent, sleepless ; nor 
might I 

Break with a sound the hush of ecstasy, 

The strange, unearthly peace, till from 
his rest 

The child awoke with soft, imploring 
cry: 

Then she, with feeble hands outreach 
ing, laid 

His little cheek to hers, and softly made 

His murmurs cease upon her mother- 
breast. 

XXVI. 

My trance dissolved at once, and falling 
prone 

In agony of tears, as falls a wave 

With choked su^urrus in some hollow 
cave, 

Brake forth my life's lament and bitter 
moan. 

I shook with passionate grief : I mur- 
mured : " Stay ! 

Have I not sworn to give thee back 
thine own 1 

False was the token, false ! " She an- 
swered : " Nay, 

It says, Farewell ! and yonder dawns 
the day." 



No more ! I said farewell : wimd-aws 

afar, 
Still faintly came to me, its clasping 

shore, 
When morning drowned the wintry 

morning-star, 
Her ebbing life ; then paused — and 

came no more ! 
And blue the mocking sky, and loud the 

-oar 



THE CHILD. 



279 



Of loosened waters, leaping down the 

glen: 
The songs of children and the shouts of 

men 
Flouted the awful Shadow at my door ! 



And chill my heart became, a sepul- 
chre 

Sealed with the sudden ice of frozen 
tears : 

I sat in stony calm, and looked at her, 

Flown in the brightness of her beau- 
teous years, 

And not a pulse with conscious sorrow 
beat ; 

Nor, when they robed her in her wind- 
ing-sheet, 

Did any pang my silent bosom stir, 

But pain, like bliss, seemed of the things 
that were. 



With cold and changeless face beside 
her grave 

I stood, and coldly heard the shudder- 
ing sound 

Of coffin echoes, smothered under- 
ground : 

The tints I marked, the mournful 
mountains gave, — 

Faces and garments of the throngs 
around, — 

The sexton's knotted hands, the light 
and shade 

That strangely through the moving col- 
ors played, — 

So, feeling dead, Art's habit held me 
bound ! 



XXX. 

Yet, very slowly, Feeling's self was 
born 

Of chance f orgetf ulness : when mead- 
ows took 

A greener hem along the winding brook, 

And buds were balmy in the fresh May- 
morn, 

Oft would I turn, as though her step to 
wait ; 

Or ask the songless echoes why so late 

Her song delayed ; or from my lonely 
bed 

M midnight start, and weep to find h^r 



And with the pains of healing came a 

care 
For him, her child : she had not wholly 

died; 
And what of her lost being he might wear 
Was doubly mine through all the year* 

untried, 
To love, and give me love. Him would 

I bear 
Beyond the Alps, forth from this fatal 

zone, 
To make his mother's land and speech 

his own, 
And keep her beauty at his father's 

side ! 

XXXII. 

So forth we fared : the faithful peasant 
nurse 

Who guarded now his life, should guard 
it still. 

We hastened on : there seemed a brood- 
ing curse 

Upon the valley. Many a brawling rill 

We left behind, and many a darksome hill, 

Long fens, and clay-white rivers of the 
plain, 

Then mountains clad in thunder, — and 
again 

Soared the high Alps, and sparkled, 
white and chill. 



To seek some quiet, southward-opening 

vale 
Beside the Adige, was my first design ; 
And sweetly hailed along the Brenner's 

line 
With songs of Tyrol, welcomed by the 

gale 
That floated from the musky slopes of 

vine, 
With summer on its wings, I wandered 

down 
To fix our home in spme delightful 

town, — 
But when the first we reached, there 

came a sign. 



The bells were tolling, — not with nup- 
tial joy, 

But heavily, sadly : down tte winding 
street 



280 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



The pattering tumult came of children's 

feet, 
Followed by men who bore a snow-pale 

boy 
Upon a flowery bier. The sunshine 

clung, 
Caressing brow and cheek, — he was so 

young 
Even Nature felt her darling's loss, — 

and sweet 
The burial hymn by childish mourners 

sung. 

XXXV. 

" He must not see the dead ! " Thus 
unto me 

The nurse, and muffled him with tremb- 
ling hand. 

But something touched, in that sad har- 
mony, 

The infant's soul : he struggled and was 
free 

A moment, saw the dead, nor could with- 
stand 

The strange desire that hungered in his 
eye, 

And stretched his little arms, and made 
a cry, — 

While she, in foolish terror, turned to 
me : 



" Now, God have mercy, master ! rest 

not here, 
Or he will die ! " 'T was but the cause- 
less whim 
Of ignorance, and yet, a formless fear 
O'ercame my heart, and darkly menaced 

him 
As with his mother's fond, foreboding 

dread : 
Then, wild with haste to lift the shadow 

dim 
Which seemed already settling round 

his head, 
That hour we left, and ever southward 

sped. 



Past wondrous mountains, peaked with 

obelisks, 
With pyramids and domes of dolomite 
That burned vermilion in the dying 

light, — 
Crags where the hunter with a thousand 

risks 
The steinbok follows, — world of 

strength and song 



Under the stars among the fields of 

white, 
While deep below , the broad vale winds 

along 
Through corn and wine, secure fron: 

winter's wrong ! 



My plan complete, the foolish servi- 
tress 

Back to her dark Bohemian home I sent, 

And gave my boy to one whose gentle- 
ness 

Fell gentlier from her Tuscan tongue. 
We went 

By lonely roads, where over Garda'g 
lake 

Their brows the cloven-hearted mount- 
ains bent, 

To lands divine, where Como's waters 
make 

Twin arms, to clasp them for their 
beauty's sake ! 



There ceased my wanderings, finding 

what I sought : 
The charms of water, earth, and air 

allied, — 
Secluded homes, with prospects free and 

wide 
Around a princely world, which thither 

brought 
Only the aspect of its holiday, 
And made its emulous, unsleeping pride 
Put on the yoke of Nature, and obey 
Her mood of ornament, her summer play. 



The shapely hills, whose summits tow- 
ered remote 
In rosy air, might smile in soft disdain 
Of palaces that strung a jewelled chain 
About their feet, and far-off, seemed to 

float 
On violet-misted waters ; yet they wore 
Their groves and gardens like a festa] 

train, 
And in the mirror of the crystal plain 
Steep vied with steep, shore emulated 
shore ! 



Above Bellagio, on the ridge that leani 
To meet, on either side, the parted blue, 



THE CHILD. 



281 



ITiere is a cottage, which the olive 

screens 
From sight of those who come the pomp 

to view 
Of Villa Serbelloni : thrust apart 
Beside a quarry whence the pile they 

drew, — 
A home for simple needs and straitened 

means, 
For lonely labor and a brooding heart. 



Too young was I, too filled with blood 
and fire, 

To clothe myself with ultimate despair. 

Drinking with eager breast that idle air, 

Color with eyes new-bathed, that could 
not tire, 

And stung by form, and wooed by mov- 
ing grace, 

And warmed with beauty, should I not 
aspire 

My misty dreams with substance to re- 
place, 

Nor ghosts beget, but an immortal race ? 



Yea ! rather close, as in a sainted shrine, 
My life's most lovely, tender episode, 
Renounce the ordination it bestowed, 
And only taste its sacramental wine 
In those brief Sabbaths, when the heart 

demands 
Solemn repose and sustenance divine ! 
Yet lives the Artist in these restless 

hands, 
And waiting, here, the rich material 

stands ! 



Kad I not sought, I asked myself, the 

far 
Result, and haughtily disdained the 

source ? 
From myriad threads hangs many- 
stranded Force, — 
Compact of gloomy atoms, burns the 

star! 
Of earth are all foundations; and of 

old 
On mounds of clay were lifted to their 

place 
Shafts of eternal temples. We behold 
The noble end, whereto no means are 

base. 



I loved my work ; and therefore vowed 
to love 

All subjects, finding Art in everything, — 

The angel's plumage in the bird's plain 
wing, — 

Until such time as I might rise above 

The conquered matter, to the power su- 
preme 

Which takes, rejects, adorns, — a right- 
ful king, 

Whose hand completes the subtly-hinted 
scheme, 

And blends in equal truth the Fact and 
Dream ! 



And now commenced a second life, 
wherein 

Myself and Agatha and Angelo 

Beheld the lonely seasons come and 
go, 

Contented, — whether gray with hoar- 
frost thin 

The aloes stiffened, or the passion-flower 

Enriched the summer heats, or autumn 
shower 

Rejoiced the yellow fig-leaves wide to 
blow : — 

So still that life, we scarcely felt ita 
flow. 



How guileless, sweet, the infancy he 

knew, 
Loved for his own and for his mother's 

sake ! 
How fresh in sunny loveliness he grew, 
Fanned by the breezes of the Larian 

lake. 
My little Angelo, my baby-friend, 
My boy, my blessing ! — while for him 

I drew 
A thousand futures, brightening to the 

end; 
Long paths of light, with ne'er a cloudy 

break ! 



For, lisping in a sweeter tongue than 

mine, 
'T was his delight around the spot to 

play 
Where fast I wrought in unillusive 

day, — 
Where he might chase from rock or 

rustling vine 



282 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



The golden lizard ; seek the mellow 

peach, 
Wind-shaken ; or, where spread the 

branchy pine 
His coverture of woven shade and shine, 
Sleep, lulled by murmurs of the pebbly 

beach. 

XLIX. 

Along San Primo's chestnut-shaded 
sides, 

Through fields of thyme and spiky lav- 
ender 

And yellow broom, wherein the she-goat 
hides 

Her yeanling kid, and wild bees ever 
stir 

The drifted blossoms, — high and breezy 
downs, — 

I led his steps, and watched his young 
eye glance 

In brightening wonder o'er the fair ex- 
panse 

Of mountain, lake, and lake-reflected 
towns ! 



Or, crossing to the lofty Leccan shore, 
I bade him see the Fiume-latte leap 
Through shivered rainbows down the 

- ho How steep, 
A meteor of the morning ; high and hoar 
The Alp that fed it leaned against the 

blue, — 
But siren -voices chanted in the roar, 
Enticing, mocking : shudderingly he 

drew 
Back from the shifting whirls of endless 

dew. 



T was otherwise, when borne in danc- 
ing bark 

Across the wave, where Sommariva's 
walls 

Flash from the starred magnolia's 
breathing dark, 

High o'er its terraced roses, fountain- 
falls 

An i bosky laurels. In that garden he 

Chirruped and fluttered like a callow 
lark, 

With dim fore-feeling of the azure 
free, 

Sustaining wing and strength of song- 
ful glee ! 



No thing that I might paint, — '■ a sunstt 

cloud, 
A rosy islet of the amber sky, — 
A lily-branch, — the azure-emerald dye 
Of neck and crest that makes the pea- 
cock proud, — 
Or plume of fern, or berried ivy-braid, 
Or sheen of sliding waters, — e'er could 

vie 
With the least loveliness his form con- 
veyed 
In outline, motion, daintiest light and 
shade. 



Not yet would I indulge the rapturous 
task, 

The crown of labor ; though my weary 
brain 

Ached from the mimicry of Nature's 
mask, 

And yearned for human themes. It 
was in vain, 

My vow, that patient bondage to sus- 
tain: 

Some unsubdued desire began to ask : 

" How shall these soulless images be 
warmed 1 

Or Life be learned from matter unin- 
formed ?" 

LIV. 

" Then Life ! " I said : " but cautiously 

and slow, — 
Pure human types, that, from the com- 
mon base 
By due degrees the spirit find its place, 
And climb to passion and supernal glow 
Of Heaven's beatitude. The level track 
Once let me tread, nor need to stoop so 

low 
Beneath my dreams, and thus their hope 

efface, — 
But late, in nobler guise, receive them 
back/' 

LV. 

So, venturing no further, I began 

The work I craved, and only what 1 

found 
In limber child, or steely-sinewed man, 
Or supple maiden, drew: within that 

bound 
Such excellence I saw, as told how much, 
Despising truth, I strayed : with reverenf 

touch 



THE CHILD. 



•281 



3od's architecture did my pencil trace 
In joint and limb, as in the go Hike face. 



Each part expressed its nicely-measured 

share 
In the mysterious being of the whole : 
Not from the eye or lip looked forth the 

soul, 
But made her habitation everywhere 
Within the bounds of flesh"; and Art 

might steal, 
As once, of old, her purest triumphs 

there. 
Go see the headless Ilioneus kneel, 
And thou the torso's agony shait feel ! 



The blameless spirit of a lofty aim 
Sees not a line that asks to be concealed 
By dexterous evasion ; but, revealed 
As truth demands, doth Nature smite 

with shame 
Them, who with artifice of ivy-leaf 
Unsex the splendid loins, or shrink the 

frame 
From life's pure honesty, as shrinks a 

thief, 
While stands a hero ignorant of blame ! 



What joy it was, from dead material 

forms, 
Opaque, one-featured, and unchange- 
able, 
To turn, and track the shifting life that 

warms 
The shape of Man! — within whose 

texture dwell 
Uncounted lines of beauty, tints un- 

guessed 
)n luminous height, in softly-shaded 

dell, 
.\nd myriad postures, moving or at 

rest, — 
All phases fair, and each, in turn, the 

best ! 



The rich ideal promise these convey, 
Which in the forms of Earth can never 

live. 
Each plastic soul has yet the power to 

give 
\. separate model to its subject clay, 



And finely works its cunning likenes 

out : 
To men a block, to me a statue lay 
In each, distinct in being, draped about 
With mystery, touched with Beauty't 

random ray 1 



Now Fame approached, when I expected 

least 
Her noisy greeting: 't was the olden 

tale. 
Half -scornfully I gave ; yet men in- 
creased 
Their golden worth, the more I felt 

them fail, 
My painful counterfeits of lifeless things. 
" Behold ! " they cried : " this wondrous 

artist brings 
Each leaf and vein of meadow-blossoms 

pale, 
The agate's streaks, the meal of mothy 

wings ! " 



And truly, o'er a wayside-weed they 

raised 
A sound of marvel, found in lichen-rust 
Of ancient stones a glory, stood amazed 
To view a melon, gray with summer 

dust, 
And so these rudimental labors praised, 
The Tempter whispered to my flattered 

ear : 
" Why seek the unattained, — thy fame 

is here ! " 
" A vaunt ! " I cried : "in mine own soul 

I trust ! " 



A little while, I thought, and I shall 

know 
The stamp and sentence of my des- 
tiny, — 
The fateful crisis, whence my life shall 

be 
A power, a triumph, an immortal show 
A kindling inspiration : or be classed 
(As many a noble brother in the Past) 
Pictor Iynoius : as it happens, so 
Shall turn the fortunes of my Angelo ! 



For in his childish life, expanding now, 
The spirit dawuea which must his fut- 
ure guide, — 



284 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



The little prattler, with his open brow, 
His clear, dark eye, his mouth too sweet 

for pride, 
Too proud for infancy ! "My boy, de- 
cide," 
I said : " wilt painter be 1 or rather lord 
Over a marble house, a steed and 

sword 1 " 
His visage flashed: he paused not, but 
replied : 



" Give me a marble house, as white and 

tall 
As Sommariva's! Give me horse and 

hound, 
A golden sword, and servants in the 

hall, 
And thou and I be masters over all, 
My father ! " In that hope a joy he 

found, 
And oft in freaks of fancied lordship 

made 
The splendors his : ah, boy ! thy wish 

betrayed 
The blood that beats to rise, and dare 

not fall. 

LXV. 

Did Clelia's spirit yearn, what time she 
bore 

The unborn burden, for her lost estate ? 

Home-sick and pining, lorn and deso- 
late 

Except for love, did she, in thought, 
count o'er 

The graceful charms of that luxurious 
nest 

Wherefrom I stole her? Then was I 
unblest, 

tSave lie inherited her pilfered fate, 

And trod, for her, Pandolfo's palace- 
floor. 

LXVI. 

The current of my dreams, directed thus, 

Flowed ever swifter, evermore to hirn. 

Along the coves where stripling boat- 
men swim 

! watched him oft, like Morn's young 
Genius, 

Dropped from her rose-cloud on itie 
silver sand, 

Her rosy breath upon each ivory limb 

Kissed by the clasping waters, green 
and dim, 

And craved the hour when he should 
bless my hand. 



LXVI I. 

The seasons came and went. In sun ci 

frost 
Twinkled the olive, shook the aspen 

bough : 
In winter whiteness shone Legnone'a 

brow, 
Or cooled his fiery rocks in skyey blue 
When o'er the ruffled lake the breva 

tossed 
The struggling barks: their cups of 

snow and dew 
The dark magnolias held, and purpling 

poured 
The trampled blood from many a vine- 
yard's hoard. 



Five years had passed, and now the time 

was nigh 
When on the fond result my hand must 

stake 
Its cunning, — when the slowly-tutored 

eye 
Must lend the heart its discipline, to 

make 
Secure the throbbing hope, to which, 

elate, 
My long ambition clung : and, with a 

sigh, 
" If foiled," I said, " let silence conse- 
crate 
My noteless name, and hide my ruined 

fate ! " 

LXIX. 

It was an autumn morn, when I ad- 
dressed 
Myself unto the work. A violet haze 
Subdued the ardor of the golden days : 
A glassy solitude was Como's breast : 
Far, far away, from out the fading 

maze 
Of mountains, blew the flickering sound 

of bells : 
The earth lay hushed as in a Sabbath 

rest, 
And from the air came voiceless, sweet 
farewells ! " 



My choicest colors, on the palette spread 
Provoked the appetite : the canvas cleai 
Wooed from the easel : o'er his nobl# 

Lead 



THE CHILD. 



285 



The faint light fell : his perfect body 

shed 
A. sunny whiteness on the atmosphere, — 
All aspects gladsomeiy invited : yet 
Across my heart there swept a wave of 

dread, — 
The first lines trembled which my crayon 

set. 



The background, lightly sketched, re- 
vealed a wild 

Storm-shadowed sweep of Amnion's 
desert hills, 

Whose naked porphyry no dew-fed 
rills 
ed 
rent and piled 

As thunder-split : behind them, glimmer- 
ing low, 

The falling sky disclosed a lurid bar : 

In front, a rocky platform, where, a 
star 

Of lonely life, I meant his form should 
glow. 



The God-selected child, there should he 

stand, 
Alone and rapt, as from the world with- 
drawn 
To seek, amid the desolated land, 
Ilis Father's counsel : in one tender 

hand 
A cross of reed, to lightly rest upon, 
The other hand a scrolled phylactery 
Should, hanging, hold, — as it the seed 

might be 
W herefrom the living Gospel shall ex- 
pand. 



A. simple theme : why, therefore, should 
my faith 

In mine own skill forsake me ? why 
should seem 

His beauteous presence strangely like a 
dream, — 

His shining form an unsubstantial 
wraith 1 

»Vas it the mother's warning, thus im- 
pressed 

To stay my hand, or, working in my 
breast, 

That dim, dread Power, that monitor 
supreme, 

Whose mystic ways and works no Script- 
ure saith 1 



I dropped the brush, and, to assure my 
heart, 

Now vanquished quite, with quick, im- 
passioned start 

Caught up the boy, and kissed him o'ei 
and o'er, — 

Cheek, bosom, limbs, — and felt his 
pulses beat 

Secure existence, till my dread, dispelled, 

Became a thing to smile at : then, on'cts 
more 

My hand regained its craft, and followed 
fleet 

The living lines my filmless eyes beheld. 



And won those lines, and tracked the 
subtle play 

Where cold, keen light, without a 
boundary, 

Through warmth, lapsed into shadow's 
mystic gray, 

And other light within that shadow lay. 

A maze of beauty, — till, outwearied, he 

With drooping eyelid stood and totter 
ing knee ; 

While I, withdrawn to gaze, with eager 
lip 

Murmured my joy in mine own work- 
manship. 



I clothed his limbs again, and led him 
out 

To welcome sunshine and his glad re- 
ward, 

A scarlet belt, a tiny, gilded sword, — 

And long our bark, the sleeping shores 
about 

Sped as we willed, that happy after- 
noon : 

And sweet the evening promise (ah ! too 
soon 

It came,) of what the morrow should 
afford, — 

An equal service and an equal boon ! 

LXXVII. 

But on the pier a messenger I found 
From Milan, where the borrowed name 

I bore 
Was known, he said, and more tiau 

half-renowned , 
And now a bright occasion offered me 



286 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



A fairer crown than yet my forehead 

wore, — 
A range of palace-chambers to adorn 
With sportive frescoes, nymphs of Earth 

and Sea, 
Pursuing Hours, and marches of the 

Morn ! 



It steads not now that joirney to repeat, 

Which flattered, toyed, but nothing sure 
bestowed. 

When four unrestful days were sped, 
my feet, 

With yearning shod, retraced the home- 
ward road, 

With each glad minute nearing our re- 
treat, — 

Mine eyes, when far away Bellagio 
showed 

Beyond Tremezzo, straining to explore 

Some speck of welcome on the distant 
shore. 

LXXIX. 

1 hen came the town, the vineyards and 

the hill, 
The cottage : soft the orange sunset 

shone 
Upon its walls, — but everything was 

still, 
So still and strange, my heart might 

. well disown 
The startled sense that gazed : the door 

ajar, — 
The chambers vacant, — ashes on the 

stone 
Where lit his torch my shy, protecting 

Lar, — 
Dark, empty, lifeless all : I stood alone ! 



As one who in an ancieni forest walks 

..n awful midnight, when the moon is 
dim, 

And knows not What behind, or near 
him, stalks, 

And fears the rustling leaf, the snap- 
ping limb, 

And cannot cry, and scarce can breathe, 
so great 

The nameless Terror, — thus I sought 
for him, 

Yet feared to find him, lest the darkest 
fate 

Should touch my life and leave it deso- 
late ! 



The search was vain : they both had 
disappeared, 

My boy and Agatha, nor missed I aught 

Of food, or gold, or pictures. Had she 
sought, 

The nurse, a livelier home, and loved or 
feared 

Too much, to leave him ? Or some en- 
emy, 

Fell and implacable, this ruin brought, — 

This thunder-stroke 1 No answer could 
I see, 

Nor prop whereon to rest my anguished 
thought. 

LXXXI1. 

As' casts away a drowning man his gold, 
I cast the Artist from my life, and forth, 
A Father only, wandered : south or 

north 
I knew not, save the heart within me 

hold 
Love's faithful needle, ever towards him 

drawn, 
Felt and obeyed without the conscious 

will: 
And first, bv nestling town and purple 

hill, * 
To Garda's lake I swiftly hastened on. 



And thence a new, mysterious impulse 
led 

My steps along the Adige, day by day, 

To seek that village where we saw the 
dead, — 

A fantasy wherein some madness lay ; 

For years had passed, and he a babe so 
young 

That each impression with its object fi\d . 

Not so with mine, — my roused fore- 
bodings flung 

That scene to light, and there insanely 
clung. 



I found the village, but its people knew 
No tidings : wearily awhile I trod 
Among black crosses in the churchyard 

sod, 
But who could guess the boy's ? and 

why pursue 
A sickly fancy ? In that peopled vale 
Death is not rare, alas ! nor burials few 



THE PICTURE. 



287 



And soon the grassy coverbt of God 
Spreads equal green above their ashes 
pale. 

LXXXV. 

T was eve : upon a lonely mound 1 

sank 
That held no more its votive immortelles, 
Aud, over-worn and half-despairing, 

drank 
The vesper pity of the distant bells, 
Till sleep or trance descended, and my 

brain 
Forgot its ecboes of eternal knells, 
Effaced its ceaseless images of pain, 
And, blank and helpless, knew repose 

again. 

LXXXVI. 

I dreamed, — or was it dream ? My An- 

gelo 
Called somewhere out of distant space : 

I heard, 
Like faint but clearest music, every 

word. 



" Come, father, come ! " he said ; " i: 

shines like snow, 
My house of marble : I 've a speaking 

bird : 
A thousand roses in my garden grow: 
My fountains fall in basins dark as wine : 
Come to me, father, — all is yours and 

mine ! " 



And then, one fleeting monunt, Mew 

aside 
The hovering mist of Sleep, and I could 

trace 
The phantom beauty of his joyous face : 
And, whitely glimmering, o'er him I 

espied 
A marble porch of stern Palladian 

grace, — 
Then faded all. The rest my heart 

supplied : 
Pandolfo's palace on my vision broke : 
" I come ! " I cried ; and with the cry 

awoke. 



BOOK IV. 



THE PICTURE. 



I Locked in a pass of doubt, whose cliffs 
concealed 
As when a traveller, whose journey lies ! The coming life, the temper of the skies, 



In some still valley, slowly wanders on 

By brook and meadow, cottage, bower, 
and lawn, — 

Familiar sights, that charm his level eyes 

For many a league, until, with late sur- 
prise 

He starts to find those gentle regions 
gone, 

And through the narrowing dell, whose 
crags enclose 

His path, irresolutely, sadly goes : 



For what may wait beyond, he cannot 



A. garden or a desert, — in such wise 
t went, in ignorance that mocked the 

guise 
yf hope, and filled me with obscure dis- 
tress. 



I craved the certain day, that soon 

should rise 
Upon a fortunate or fatal field ! 

in. 

The House of Life hath manv chambers. 

He 
Who deems his mansion built, a dreamer 

vain, 
A tottering shell inhabits, and shall 

see 
The ruthless years hurl down his 

masonry ; 
While they who plan but as they slowly 

gain, 
Where that which was gives that which 

is to be 
Its form and symbols, build the house 

divine, — 
In life a temple, and in death a shrine 



288 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



And following as the guiding vision led, 
With briefest rest, with never-faltering 

feet, 
By highways white, through field or 

chattering street 
Or windy gorges of the hills I sped, 
And crossed the level floors of silk and 

wine, 
The slow canals, and, shrunken in their 

bed, 
The sandy rivers, till the welcome line 
Before me rose of Tuscan Apennine. 



The southern slopes, with shout and 
festal song, 

Rejoiced in vintage : as I wandered by, 

Came faun-like figures, purple to the 
thigh 

From foaming vats, and laughing wom- 
en, strong 

To bear their Bacchic loads : then, to- 
wards the town 

Through blended toil and revel hasten- 
ing down, 

I saw the terrace — saw, and checked a 
cry, — 

Whence Clelia flung to me the jasmine 
crown ! 



Alas ! how changed from him that 

wreath who wore, — 
The youth all rapture, hope and sense 

uncloyed, 
* New-landed on the world's illumined 

shore, — 
Walked now the man ! My downward 

path before 
There sprang no arch of triumph from 

the void : 
No censers burned : not as a conqueror 
I entered Florence, — no ! a slave, that 

fed 
On one last fragment of the feast I 

spread. 

VII. 

There stretched the garden-wall : the 

yellow sun 
Above it burnished every cypress spire, 
Tipped the tall laurel-clumps with 

points of fire, 
\url smote the palace-marbles till they 

won 



The golden gleam of ages. Yet, abov« 
That mellow splendor stood the beauty 

flown 
Of midnights, when around it blew and 

shone 
The breeze of Passion and the moon < I 

Love ! 



At last — the door! With tremblkg 
touch I tried 

The latch: it shook: the rusty bolte 
gave way. 

As in a dream the roses T espied, 

Heard as in dreams the fountain's lull- 
ing play. 

There curled the dolphins in the shining 
shower 

And rode the Triton boys : on either side 

The turf was diapered with many a 
flower, — 

And darkling drooped our gree;i be- 
trothal bower. 



Scarce had I entered, when there came 

a sound 
Of voices from the pillared portico,.— 
And twofold burst a cry, as Angelo, 
Across the paths, with wildly r -joyoua 

bound 
Sprang to my bosom : while, as one as- 
tound 
With sense of some unexpiated wrong 
The nurse entreated: "Bid thy father 

go! " 
But " Stay ! " he cried : " where hast 
thou been so long 1 " 



" Stay, father ! thou shalt paint me a* 
thou wilt, 

Each morning, in the silent northern 
hall; 

But Avhen, so tired, thou seest mine eve- 
lids fall, 

Then shall I take my sword with golden 
hilt, 

And call the grooms, and bid them sad- 
dle straight 

For us the two white horses in the 
stall — " 

Here shrieked the nurse, with face oi 
evil fate, 

" Go, Signor, go ! — ah, God ! too lata 
— too late ! " 



THE PICTURE. 



289 



His haste dividing, him to clasp I knelt 
Twixt porch and fountain, blind with 

tearful joy 
As on my breast his beating heart I felt, 
And on my mouth the kisses of the boy, 
Wherein his mother's phantom kisses 

poured 
A stream of ancient rapture, love re- 
stored, — 
When, like the lightning ere the stroke 

is dealt, 
Before me flashed the old Marchese's 
sword ! 



So haggard, sunken-eyed, convulsed 

with wrath 
That paints a devil on the face of age, 
He glared, that, quick to shield my child 

from scath, — 
To fly the menace of unreasoning 

rage,— 
I caught him in my cloak, and dashed 

apart 
The tangled roses of the garden-path : 
Pandolfo — hate such fatal swiftness 

hath — 
Leapt in advance, and thrust to pierce 

my heart ! 



I saw the flame-like sparkle of the 
blade : 

Heard, sharp and shrill, the nurse's fear- 
ful cry : 

Warm blood gushed o'er my hands : a 
fluttering sigh 

Came from the childish lips, that feebly 



These words, as prompted by the dark- 
ening eye, 

" Good-night, my father ! " And I knew 
not why 

My boy should sleep, so suddenly and 
so well, — 

But trembling seized me : clasping him, 
I fell. ' 



Nor loosed my hold, although I dimly 
knew 

?andolfo's hand let fall the blade ac- 
curst, 

And he, his race's hoary murderer, burst 

The awful stillness that around us grew 
19 



With miserable groans : his prostrate 

head 
Touched mine, as helpless, o'er the fad 

ing dead, — 
His hands met mine, and both as gently 

nursed 
The limbs, and strove to stay the warmth 

that fled. 



His Past, my Euture, in the body met, — 
His wrongs, my hopes, — the selfsame 

fatal blow 
Dashed into darkness : blood Lethean 

wet 
My blighted summer, his autumnal snow, 
And all of Life did either life forget, 
Except the piteous death benveen us : so, 
Together pressed, involved in half-em- 
brace, 
We hung above the cold, angelic face. 

XVI. 

" Her father, why should Heaven direct 

thy hand 
Against her child, thy blood, chastising 

thee ? " 
" I loved the boy " — " But couldst not 

pardon me, 
His father ? " " Nay, but thou thyself 

hadst banned 
Beyond forgiveness ! " " Even at his 

demand ! " 
" Ah, no ! for his sweet sake might all 

things be, 
Except to lose him." li He is lost, — and 

we 
(Thou, too, old man ! ) are childless in 

the land ! " 



XVII. 

Thus brokenly, scarce knowing what wj 

said, 
We clung like drowning men beneath 

the wave, 
That nor can hurt each other, nor can 

save, 
But breast to breast with iron arms are 

wed 
Till Death so leaves them. Us the serv- 
ants led — 
Pale, awe-struck helpers — through the 

palace-door 
And glimmering halls, to lay on Clelia'g 

bed 
The broken lily we together bore. 



290 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



God's thunder stroke his haughty heart 

had bowed : 
It bled with mine among the common 

dust 
Where Rank puts on the sackcloth of 

the crowd, 
And sits in equal woe : his guilt avowed, 
And mine, there came a sad, remorseful 

trust, 
And while the double midnight gathered 

there 
From sable hangings and the starless 

air, 
We held each other's hands, and wept 

aloud. 



And he confessed, how, after weary 

search 
And many a vain device employed, he 

found 
By chance in Zara, on Dalmatian 

ground, 
As altar-piece within a votive church 
Some shipwrecked Plntus built, — the 

Mother mild 
In whose foreboding face my Clelia 

smiled ; 
And thence, by slow degrees, to Como's 

side 
Had followed home the trail I thought 

to hide. 



And there had seized me, but the boy 

displayed 
Patrician beauty, and the failing line, 
Now trembling o'er extinction, might 

evade 
Its fate, in him. This changed the first 

design, 
And -u hat the sordid nurse for gold be- 
trayed 
Or chose Art-hucksters chattered, easy 

made 
The rape, Avhose issue should, with even 

blow, 
Revenge and compensate : but now, — 

ah. woe ! 



The issue had been reached : too dark 

and drear, 
Too tragic, pitiful, and heart-forlorn, 
3ould any heart ontain it, to be 

borne, — 



And mine refused, rebelled. Behind hia 

bier 
No meek-eyed Resignation walked, or 

Grief 
That catches sunshine in each falling teai 
To build her pious rainbow : but wirh 

scorn 
I thrust aside the truths that bring relief 



I spurned, though kindly, — for the old 

man's frame 
Stumbled in Death's advancing twilight, 

— all 
His offers : gold — the proud Pandolfan 

hall — 
Place, that should goad the lagging feet 

of Fame — 
And from his sombre palace, shudder- 
ing still, 
Cold with remembered horror, took my 

name, 
My own, restored ; and climbed the 

northern hill 
As one who lives, though dead his living 

will. 



Some habit, working in my passive feet, 
Its guidance gave : the mornings came 

and went : 
Around me spread the fields, or closed 

the street, 
And often, Night's expanded firmament 
Opened above the lesser dome of Day, 
And wild, tumultuous tongues of dark- 
ness sent 
To vex my path, — till, in our old retreat, 
I ceased to hold my reckless heart at 
bay ! 

XXIV. 

Some natures are there, fashioned ere 
their birth 

For sun, and spring-time, and the bliss 
of earth ; 

Who only sing, achieve, and triumph, 
when 

The Hours caress, and each bright cir- 
cumstance 

Leaps to its place, as in a starry dance, 

To shape their story. These the fortu- 
nate men, 

When Fate consents, whose lives are 
ever young, 

And shine around whate'er they wroughi 
or sung ! 



THE PICTURE. 



291 



Akin to these am I, — or deemed it so, 

And thus beyond my present wreck be- 
held 

No far-off rescue. All my mind, im- 
pelled 

By some blind wrath that would resent 
the blow, 

Though impotent, caught action from 
despair, 

And reached, and groped, — as when a 
man lets go 

A jewel in the dark, and seeks it where 

The furzes prick him and the brambles 
tear. 



The clash of inconsistent qualities 

No labor stayed, or beauteous passion 

smoothed, 
But each let loose, and grasping, by 

degrees, 
Sole sway, made chaos. Turbulent, un- 

soothed 
By either' s rule, — since order failed 

therein, 
And hope, the tidal star of restless 

seas, — 
I turned from every height, once fair to 

win, 
And sinned 'gainst Art the one un- 
pardoned sin ! 



For thus I reasoned : what avail my gifts, 
Which but attract, provoke the spoiling 

Fate 1 — 
Nor for themselves their destinies create, 
But task my life ; and then the thunder 

rifts 
Thsir laid foundations ! Why of finer 

nerve 
The members doomed to bear more 

cruel weight ? 
Or daintier senses, if they only serve 
To double pangs, already doubly great ? 



Lo! yonder hind, on whom doth Life 
impose 

So slight a burden, finds his patn pre- 
pared ; 

Unthinking fares as all his fathers iared, 

And cheap-won joys and soon-subsiding 
woes 



Nor cleave his heart too deep nor lift 

too high 
Peaceful as dew-mist from an evening 

sky 
The years descend, until they bid him 

close 
Upon an easy world a quiet eye i 

XXIX. 

He sees the shell of Earth - - no more 

yet more 
Were useless, — attributes of thankful 

toil ; 
The olive orchards, dark with ripening 

oil; 
The misty grapes, the harvests, tawny- 
hoar ; 
The glossy melons, swelling from the 

vine ; 
The breezy lake, alive with darting 

spoil ; 
And dances woo from yonder purple 

shore, 
And yonder Alps but cool his summer 

wine ! 



XXX. 

He lives the common life of Earth : she 
grants 

Result to instinct, food to appetite : 

With no repressed desire his bosom 
pants, 

Nor that self -torturing, questioning in 
ward sight 

Vexes his light, unconscious conscious- 
ness. 

He loves, and multiplies his life, — no 
less 

His virile pride and fatherly delight ; 

And all that smites me, visits him 'm 
bless. 



If this the law, that narrower powers 
enjoy 

Their use, denied the greater, — nay, are 
nursed 

And helped, while these their energies 
destroy 

In baffled aspirations, crossed and cursed 

By what with brightening promise lured 
them on, — 

Then life is false, its purposes reversed, 

Its luck for those who leave its veils un- 
drawn, 

And Art the mocking glory of its dawn 



292 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



Not calmly, as my memory now re- 
calls 

The crisis, — fierce, vehemently, I 
tracked 

The fatal truth through every potent 
fact 

Of being : now in fancied carnivals 

Of sense abiding, now with gloomy face 

Fronting the deeper question that ap- 
palls, 

Of " Wherefore Life ? and what this 
brawling r-ace, 

Peopling a mote of dust in endless 
space ? " 



'' O fools ! " I cried, " fools, a thou- 
sand-fold 

Tormented with your folly, seeking good 

Where Good is not, nor Evil! — words 
that hold 

Your natures captive, making ye the 
food 

And spoil of them that dare, with vision 
bold, 

See Nothingness ! — slaves of transmit- 
ted fear 

Of Power imagined, never understood, 

The Demon rules you still that set you 
here ! " 



The curse I would have broken bound 
me still. 

As flowery chains aforetime, fetters now 

Of tyrant Art subdued my wandering 
will, 

And made its youthful, glad, spontane- 
ous vow 

&.n iron law, whence there was no es- 
cape. 

No rest, though hopeless, would my 
brain allow, 

But drew the pictures of its haunting 
ill, 

£nd gave its reckless fancies hue and 
shape. 



|o, after many days, the cob webbed 

door 
hrtire sullen entrance : naught was there 

displaced ; 



And first I turned, with pangs and shud 

dering haste, 
My young St. John, — I would not see 

it more. 
Then snatched an empty canvas from 

the floor 
And drew a devil : therein did I taste 
Fierce joys of liberty, for what I wouIg 
I would, — Art was itself a Devilhood ! 



This guilty joy, the holiest to debase, — 
To use the cunning, born of pious toil, 
The purest features of my dreams to 

soil, 
And drag in ribaldry the pencil's 

grace, — 
Grew by indulgence. Forms and groups 

unclean 
Or mocking, faster than my hand could 

trace 
Their vivid, branding features, thrust a 

screen 
My restless woe and dead desire between. 

XXXVII. 

Sometimes, perchance, a grim, sarcastic 

freak 
My pencil guided, and I stiffly drew 
Byzantine saints, of flat, insipid cheek 
And monstrous eye ; or some Madonna 

meek, 
With dwarfish mouth, like those of Cim- 

abue ; 
Or martyr-figures, less of flesh than bone, 
Lean hands, and lips forever making 

moan, — 
A travesty of woe, distorted, weak. 



Or, higher ranging, touched the fi»dd 
that charms 

Monastic painters, who, in vision warm 

The Mystery grasp, and wondrous fres- 
cos form 

Where God the Father, with wide-spread • 
ing arms, 

Rides on the whirlwind which His breath 
has made, 

Or sows His judgments, Earth in dark- 
ness laid 

Beneath Him, — works which only not 
blaspheme, 

Because the faith that wrought then 
was supreme. 



TTIK PICTURE. 



293 



Thus habit grew, im;»gi nation stalked 

[n shameless hardihood from things 
profane 

To sacred : nothing hindered, awed, or 
baulked 

The appetite diseased, and such a plan 

I sketched, as never since the world be- 
gan— 

So strange and mad — engendered any 
brain. 

Once entertained, the lovely-loathsome 
guest 

Clung to my fancy and my hand pos- 
sessed. 



Not broad the canvas, but the shape* it 

showed, 
With utmost art defined, might almost 

seem 
To grow and spread, dilating with the 

theme. 
Filling the space, a lurid ocean glowed 
In endless billows, tipped with foam of 

fire, 
Shoreless : but far more dreadful than 

a dream 
Of Hell, the shapes which in that sea 

abode, 
With sting and fang, and scaly coil and 

spire ! 



One with a lizard's sinuous motion 

slipped 
Forth from the dun recesses of the wave, 
Man-eyed and browed, but tusked and 

lipped 
Like river-horse : its claws another 

drave 
U r ithin a ghastly head, whose dim eyes 

gave 
Slow tears of blood : and with a burn- 
ing tongue 
[n brazen jaws out-thrust, another 

stripped 
From floating bones the flesh that round 

them clung ! 



Lnd n the midst, suspended from above 
Just o'er the blazing foam, in light in- 
tense, 
k naked youth — a form of strength 
and love 



And beauty, perfect as the artist's sense 
Dreams of a god; and every glorious 

limb 
Burned in a glow that made those bil 

lows dim. 
A weird and awful brilliance, coming 

whence 
No eye might fathom, dashed alou« »i 



Let down from Somewhere by a might f 

chain 
Linked round his middle, lightly, gra- 
ciously 

mi£ 

be 

Compact of molten metal, such a stain 
Of angry scarlet streamed and shot 

around : 
The face convulsed, yet whether so with 

pain 
Or awful joy, no gazers might agree, 
And damp the crispy gold his brows that 

crowned. 



And, as he swung, all hybrid monsters 
near, 

Dark dragon-leech, huge vermin human 
faced, 

Their green eyes turned on him with 
hideous leer, 

Or stretched abhorrent tentacles, to taste 

His falling ripeness. Through the pict- 
ure spread 

A sense of tumult, hinting to the ear 

The snap and crackle of those waters 
red, 

And hiss, and howl, and bestial noises 
dread. 



Unweariedly I wrought, — each grim 
detail 

As patient-perfect, as from Denner's 
brush, 

Of hair, or mouldy hide, or pliant mail, 

Or limbs, slow-parting, as the grinders 
crush 

Their quivering fibres : good the work- 
manship, 

Yet something unimagined seemed to 
fail, — 

A crowning Horror, in whose iron grip 

The heart should stifle, bloodless be the 
lip 



294 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



This to invent, with hot, unresting- mind 
I labored : early sat and lal^, possessed 
With evil images, with wicked zest 
To wreak my mood, though it might 

curse my kind, 
On Evil's purest type, and horridest ; 
And never young ambition heretofore 
In noble service so itself outwore. 
What thus we seek, or soon or late we 

find. 



One morn of winter, when unmelted frost, 
Beneath a low hung vault of moveless 

cloud, 
Silvered the world, even while my head 

was bowed 
In half-despair, my brain the Horror 

crossed, 
Unheralded ; and never human will 
Achieved such fearful triumph ! Never 

came 
The form of that which language cannot 

name, 
So armed the life of souls to crush and 

kill! 



And this be never unto men revealed, 
To curse by mere existence ! Knowl- 
edge taints, 
Drawn from such crypts, the whitest 

robes of saints ; 
Though faith be firm, and warrior-virtue 

steeled 
Against assault, the Possible breaks in 
Their borders, and the soul that cannot 

yield 
Must needs receive the images it paints, 
And shudder, sinless, in the air of Sin ! 



My blood runs chill, remembering now 

the laugh 
Wherewith, enlightened, I the pencil 

seized, — 
Half deadly-smitten, fascinated half, 
Yet sworn to do the dreadful thing I 

pleased ! 
All things upheld my mood with evil 

guise : 
The palette-colors, to my sense diseased, 
Winked wickedly, like devils' slimy eyes, 
And darkness closed me from the droop- 
ing skies ! 



As when a harp-string in a silent roon. 

At midnight snaps, with weird, melodi- 
ous twang, 

So suddenly, through inner, outer gloom 

A sweet, sharp sound, vibrating slowly 
rang 

And sank to hummirg music ; while a 
stream 

Of gathering odor fcilowed, as in dream 

We braid the bliss of music and pi-i 
fume, — 

And pierced, I sat, with some divinest 
pang. 



And, as from sound and fragrance bora, 

a glow 
All rosy-golden, fair as Alpine snow 
At sunset, grew, — mist-like at first, and 

dim, 
But brightening, folding inwards, fold 

on fold, 
Until my ravished vision could behold 
Complete, each line of sunny-shining 

limb 
And sainted head, soft-posed as I had 

drawn 
My boy — my Angelo — mv young St 

John ! 



O beauteous ghost ! sacred loveli- 
ness ! 

Unworthy I to look upon thy face, 

Unworthy thy transfigured form to 
trace, 

That stood, expectant, waiting but to 
bless 

By miracle, where I intended crime ! 

The folded scroll, the shadowy cross of 
reed 

He bore, — St. John, but not of mortal 
seed : 

So God beheld him, in that early time ! 



Dew came to burning eyes : a heaven!? 

rain, 
A balmy deluge, bathed my arid heart, 
And washed that hateful fabric of the 

brain 
To rot, a ruin, in some Hell of Art. 
A sweet, unquestioning, obedient mood 
Made swift revulsion from the brokdB 

strain 



THE PICTURE. 



295 



Of my revolt ; and still the Phantom 

wooed, 
A.6 bright, and wonderful, and mute, it 

stood. 



Vet I, through all dissolving, trembling 



Of consciousness, his angel-errand knew. 

The guilty picture fell, and forth I 
drew 

My d'ra St. John from out the dusty 
heaps, 

Ar.il cleansed it first, and kissed in rev- 
erence 

The shadowy lips, — fresh colors took, 
and true, 

And painted, while on each awakened 
sense 

I ^4e awful beauty of the Phantom grew. 



All hoarded craft, all purposes and 
powers 

Together worked : the scattered gleams 
of thought 

Aa through a glass my heart together 
brought 

To light my hand : the chariots of the 
Hours 

For me were stayed : I knew not Earth 
nor Time, 

But painted nimbly in a trance sub- 
lime, 

And tint by tint my charmed pencil 
caught, 

And line by line, the loveliness it sought, 



Mine Dyes were purged from film : I saw 
aid fixed 

The subtle secrets, not with old de- 
spair 

But with undoubting faith my colors 
mixed, 

And with unfaltering hand the breeze- 
blown hair, 

The dark, unfathomed eyes, the lips of 
youth, 

The dainty, fleeting grace that stands 
betwixt 

The babe and child, in members pure 
and bare, 

Portrayed, with joy that owned my 
pencil's truth. 



LVII. 

And he, my heavenly model ! how he 

shone, 
Unwearied, silent, — drawn, a golden 

form, 
Against the background of a sky of 

storm, 
On Amnion's desert hills ! The land- 
scape lone 
Through all its savage slopes and gorges 

smiled, 
Him to enframe, the God-selected child, 
And o'er the shadowy distance fell a 

gleam 
That touched with promised peace its 

barren dream. 



At last, the saffron clearness of the 

west, 
From under clouds, shot forth elegiac 

ray 
That sang the burial of the wondrous 

day: 
And sad, mysterious music in my breast, 
As at the coming, now the close ex- 
pressed. 
Ah, God ! I dared not watch him float 

away, 
But, seized and shaken by the fading 

spell, 
And covering up my face, exhausted 

fell. 



There, when my beating heart no longer 

shook 
The sense that listened, though that 

music died, 
A solemn Presence lingered at my side ; 
And drop by drop, as forms an infant 

brook 
Within a woodland hollow, soft, un- 
heard, 
And out of nothing braids its slender 

tide, 
The sense of speech the living silence 

stirred 
And wordless sound became melodious 

word ! 



tw weak of will ! " (so spake what 

seemed a voice) 
" And slave of sense, that, hovering in 

extremes, 



296 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



Dost oversoar, and undermine thy 

dreams, 
Behold the lowest, highest ! Make thy 

choice, — 
Lord of the vile or servant of the pure : 
Be free, range all that is, if better seems 
Freedom to smite thyself, than to en- 
dure 
The pain that worketh thine immortal 
cure ! 



" Lo ! never any living brain knew 

peace, 
That saw not, rooted in the scheme of 

things, 
Assailing and protecting Evil! Cease 
To beat this steadfast law with bleeding 

wings, 
For know, that never any living brain, 
Which rested not within its ordered 

plane, 
Restrung the harp of life with sweeter 

strings, 
Or made new melodies, except of pain ! 



"Where wast thou, when the world's 
foundations first 

Were laid ? Didst thou the azure tent 
unfold ? 

Or bid the young May-morning's car of 
gold 

Herald the seasons ? Wouldst thou see 
reversed 

The sacred order? "Why, if life be 
cursed, 

Add to its curses thy rebellion bold? 

Or has thy finer wisdom only yearned 

For thankless gifts and recompense un- 
earned ? 



" Come, thou hast questioned God : I 
question thee. 

And truly thou art smitten, — yet re- 
press 

Thine old impatience : calm the eyes 
that see 

How blows give strength, and sharpest 
sorrows bless. 

Free art thou : is thy liberty so fair 

To hide .he ghost of vanished happiness, 

And eieep'st thou sweeter under skies, 
so bare 

Theee thunderstrokes were welcome to 



" Why is thy life so sorely smitten 

Wait, 
And thou shalt learn ! Dead stones thy 

teachers were : 
Through years of toil thy hand did min- 
ister 
To jovous Art : thou wast content with 

" Fate. 
Take now thy ruined passion, fix its 

date, 
Peruse its growth, and, if thou canst, 

replan 
The blended facts of Life that made 

thee man ; — 
Could aught be spared, or changed fo» 

other state 1 



"Not less thy breathing bliss than yoii 
der hind 

Thou onviest, but more : therein it lies, 

That each experience brings a twin sur- 
prise, 

As mirrored in the glad, creative mind, 

And in the beating heart. Behold ! he 
bows 

To adverse circumstance, to change and 
death ; 

But thou wouldst place thy fortune his 
beneath, 

Shaming the double glory on thy brows ! 



" His pangs outworn, perchance some 

feeling lives 
For those of others ■ thine the lordly 

power 
Transmuting all thai loss or suffering 

gives 
To Beauty ! Even thy most despairing 

hour 
Some darker grace informs, and like a 

bee 
Thine Art sits hoarding in thy Passion's 

flower : 
So vast thy need, no phase thine eye can 

see 
Of Earth or Life, that not enrichei "hee ! 



" Such is the Artist, — drawing precioui 

use 
From every fate, and so by laws divine 



THE PICTURE. 



297 



fincompassed, that in glad obedience 

shine 
I lis works the fairer : his the flag of 

truce 
Between the warring worlds of soul and 

sense : 
By neither mastered, holding both apart, 
Or blending in a newer excellence, 
Lie weds the haughty brain and yearn- 
ing heart. 



' Beneath tempestuous, shifting move- 
ment laid, 
The base of steadfast Order he be- 
holds, 
And from the central vortex, unafraid, 
Marks how all action evermore unfolds 
Forth from a point of absolute repose, 
Which hints of God ; and how, in gleams 

betrayed, 
The Perfect even in imperfection 

shows, — 
And Earth a bud, but breathing of the 
rose ! " 



Even as the last stroke of a Sabbath 

bell, 
Heard in the Sabbath silence of a dell, 
Sounds on and on, with fainter, thinner 

note, 
Distincter ever, till its dying swell 
Draws after it the listener's ear, to 

float 
Farther and farther into skies remote, — 
So, when what seemed a voice had 

ceased, the strain 
Drew after it the waiting, listening brain. 



.Vnd, following far, my senses on the 

track 
Slid into darkness. Dead to life, I lay 
Plunged in oblivious slumber, still and 

black, 
All through the night and deep into the 

day : 
i"et was it sleep, not trance, — restoring 

Sleep, 
That from the restless soul its house of 

clay 
Protects ; and when I woke, her dew so 

deep 
Had drenched, the wondrous Past was 

washed away. 



But there, before me, its recorded gift 

Flashed from the easel, so divinely bright 

It shamed the morning : then, returning 
swift, 

The wave of Memory rolled, and pure 
delight 

Filled mine awakening spirit, and I 
wept 

With contrite heart, redeemed, enfran- 
chised quite : 

My sick revolt was healed, — the Demon 
slept, 

And God was good, and Earth her prom- 
ise kept. 



I wandered forth ; andlo! the halcyon 

world 
Of sleeping wave, and velvet-folded hill, 
And stainless air and sunshine, lay so 

still ! 
No mote of vapor on the mountains 

curled ; 
But lucid, gem-like, blissful, as if sin 
Or more than gentlest grief had never 

been, 
Each lovely thing, of tint that shone im- 

pearled, 
As dwelt some dim beatitude therein ! 



There, as I stood, the contadini came 

With anxious, kindly faces, seeking me; 

And caught my hands, and called me 
by my name, 

As one from danger snatched might 
welcomed be. 

Such had they feared, their gentle greet- 
ing told, — 

Seeing the cottage shut, the chimney 
free 

Of that blue household breath, whose 
rings, unrolled, 

The sign of home, the life of landscape, 
hold. 



So God's benignant hand directing 

wrought, 
And Man and Nature took me back to 

life. 
My cry was hushed : the forms of child 

and wife 
Smiled from a solemn, moonlit land oj 

tli 'U-lH, 



298 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 



A realm of peaceful sadness. Sad, yet 

strong, 
My soul stood up, threw off its robes of 

strife, 
x\nd quired anew the world-old human 

song, — 
Accepting patience and forgetting 

wrong ! 

LXXT. 

Erelong, my living joy in Art returned, 
But reverently felt, and purified 
By recognition of the bounty spurned, 
And meek acceptance in the place of 

pride. 
Yet nevermore should brush of mine be 

drawn 
O'er the unfinished picture of St. John : 
What from the lovely miracle I learned, 
The lines of colder toil should never 

hide. 



Though incomplete, it gave the prophecy 

Of far-off power, whereto my patient 
mind 

Must set its purpose, — saying unto me : 

'• Make sure the gift, the fleeting fort- 
une bind, — 

What once a moment was, may ever 
be!" 

And when, in time, this hope securer 
grew, 

Unto the picture, whence my truth I 
drew, 

A sacred dedication I asjigned. 



Pandolfo dead, the body of my child 
Upon his mother's lonely breast I laid, 
A late return ; and o'er their a-hes made 
A chapel, in the green Bohemian wild, 
For weary toil, pure thought, and silent 

prayer, — 
A simple shrine, of all adornment bare, 
Save o'er the altar, where, completed 

now, 
St. John looks down, with Heaven upon 

his brow ! 



The Past accepts no sacrifice : its gates 
Alike atonement and revenge out-bar. 
We take its color, ye* our spirits are 
Thrust forward by a power which ante- 
dates 



Their own : the hand of Art outreaehet 

Fate's, 
And lifts the bright, unrisen, refracted 

star 
Above our dark horizon, showing thus 
A future to the faith that fades in us. 



Net with that vanity of shallow minds 

Which apes the speech, and shames the 
noble truth 

Of them whose pride is knowledge, — 
nor of Youth 

The dazzling, dear mirage, that never 
finds 

Itself o'ertaken, — but with trust in 
fame, 

As knowing fame, and owning now the 
pure 

And humble will which makes achieve- 
ment sure, 

I, Egon, here the Artist's title claim ! 



The forms of Earth, the masks of Life, 
I see, 

Yet see wherein they fail : with eager 
eyas 

I hunt the wandering gleams of har- 
mony, 

The rarer apparitions which surprise 

With hints of Beauty, fixing these alone 

In wedded grace of form and tint and 
tone, 

That so the thing, transfigured, shall 
arise 

Beyond itself, and truly live in me. 



And I shall paint, discerning where the 
line 

Wavers between the Human and Di- 
vine, — 

Nor to the Keal in servile bondage 
bound, 

Nor scorning it : nor with supernal 
themes 

Feeding the moods of o'er-aspiring 
dreams, 

(For mortal triumph is a god un- 
crowned,) — 

But by Proportion ruled, and by Re- 
pose, 

And by the Soul supreme whence thej 
arose. 



THE PICTURE. 



299 



Not clamoring for over-human bliss, 
Yet now no more unhappy, — not elate 
As one exalted o'er the level state 
Of these ungifted lives, yet strong in 

this, 
That I the sharpest stab and sweetest 

kiss 
Have tasted, suffered, — I can stand and 

wait, 
Serene in knowledge, in obedience free, 
The only master of my destiny ! 



And thus as in a clear, revealing noon 

I live. So comes, sometimes, a mount- 
ain day : 

A vague, uncertain, misty morn, and 
soon 

Sharp-smiting sun, and winds' and light- 
ning's play, — 

A drear confusion, by the final crash 

Dispersed, and ere meridian blown 
away; 

And all the peaks shine bare, the waters 
flash, 

And Earth lies open to the golden ray ! 



Lonely, perchance, but as these dark- 
browed hills 

Are lonely, belted round with broader 
spheres 

Of bluer world, my life its peace fulfils 

In poise of soul : the long, laborious 
years 



Await me : closed my holy task, I go 
To reaccept, beyond the Alpine snow, 
The gage of glorious battle with my 

peers, — 
Not each of each, but of false art, the 

foe. 



Once more, lovely, piteous, shaping 
Past, 

I kiss thy lips : now let thy face be hid, 

And this green turf above thy coffin- 
lid 

Be turned to violets ! The forests cast 

Their shadowy arms across the quiet 
vale, 

And all sweet sounds the coming rest 
foretell, 

And earth takes glory as the sky grows 
pale, 

So fond and beautiful the Day's fare- 
well ! 



Farewell, then, thou embosomed isle of 

peace 
In restless waters ! Let the years in- 
crease 
With unexpected blessing : thou shalt 

lie 
As in her crystal shell the maiden lay, 
Watched o'er by weeping dwarfs, — too 

fair to die, 
Yet charmed from life : and there may 

come a day 
Which crowns Desire with gift, and Art 

with truth, 
And Love with bliss, and Life with wiser 

youth ! 



LARS : 

A PASTORAL OF NORWAY. 



TO 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

Through many years my heart goes back, 

Through checkered years of loss and gain, 
To that fair landmark on its track, 
When first, beside the Merrimack, 
Opon thy cottage roof I heard the autumn rain. 

A hand that welcomed and that cheered 

To one unknown didst thou extend ; 
Thou gavest hope to Song that feared ; 
But now, by Time and Faith endeared, 
I claim the sacred right to call the Poet, Friend ! 

However Life the stream may stain, 

From thy pure fountain drank my youth 
The simple creed, the faith human 
In Good, that never can be slain, 
The prayer for inward Light, the search for outward Tre'; 

Like thee, I see at last prevail 

The sleepless soul that looks above ; 
I hear, far off, the hymns that hail 
The Victor, clad in heavenly mail, 
WTiose only weapons are the eyes and voice of Love ! 

Take, then, these olive leaves from me, 

To mingle with thy brighter bays ! 
Some balm of peace and purity, 
In them, may faintly breathe of thee ; 
And take the grateful love, wherein I hide thy praise ; : 



LAKS: 

A PASTOEAL OF NORWAY. 



BOOK I. 



On curtained eyes, and bosoms warm with rest, 

On slackened fingers and unburdened feet, 

On limbs securer slumber held from toil, 

While nimble spirits of the busy blood 

Renewed their suppleness, yet filled the trance 

With something happy which was less than dreasi, 

The sun of Sabbath rose. Two hours, afar, 

Behind the wintry peaks of Justedal, 

Unmarked, he climbed ; then, pausing on the cregt 

Of Fille Fell, he gathered up his beams 

Dissolved in warmer blue, and showered them dows 

Between the mountains, through the falling vale, 

On Ulvik's cottages and orchard trees. 

And one by one the chimneys breathed ; the sail 

That loitered lone along the misty fiord 

Flashed like a star, and filled with fresher wind ; 

The pasturing steers, dispersed on grassy slopes, 

Raised heads of wonder over hedge and wall 

To call, unanswered, the belated cows; 

And ears that would not hear, or heard in dreamt 

The lark's alarum over idle fields, 

And lids, still sweetly shut, that else unclosed 

At touch of daybreak, yielded to the day. 

Then, last of all, among the maidens, met 
To dip fresh faces in the chilly fount, 
And smoothen braids of sleep-entangled hair, 
Came Brita, glossy as a mating bird. 
No need had she to stoop and wash awake 
Her drowsy senses : air and water kissed 
A face as bright and breathing as their own, 
In joy of life and conscious loveliness. 
If still her mirror's picture stayed with her, 
A memory, whispering how the downcast lid 
Shaded the flushing fairness of her cheek, 
And hinting how a straying lock relieved 
The rigid fashion of her hair, or how 
The curve of slightly parted lips became 
Half-sad, half-smiling, either meaning much 
Or naught, as wilful humor might decide. — 



304 lars. 

Yet thence was born the grace she could not lose : 
Her beauty, guarded, kept her beautiful. 

" Wilt soon be going, Brita ? " Ragnil asked ; 

" And which the way, — by fiord or over fell 1 " 

" Why, both ! " another laughed ; " or else the rocks 
Will split and slide beneath the feet of Lars, 
Or Per will meet the Kraken ! " Brita held 
One dark-brown braid between her teeth, and wove 
The silken twine and tassels through its fringe, 
Before she spake ; but first she seemed to sigh : 

" I will not choose ; you shall not spoil my day ! 
All paths are free that lead across the fell ; 
All wakes are free to keels upon the fiord, 
And even so my will : come Lars or Per, 
Come Erik, Anders, Harald, Olaf, Nils, 
Come soeter-boys, or sailors from the sea, 
No lass is bound to slight a decent lad, 
Or walk behind him when the way is wide." 

* No way is wide enough for three, I Ve heard," 
Said Ragnil, " save there be two men that prop 
A third, when market 's over." 

" Go your ways ! n 
Then Brita cried : " if two or twelve should come, 
I call them not, nor do I bid them go : 
A friendly word is no betrothal ring." 

Then tossed she back her braids, and with them tossed 

Her wilful head. " Why, take you both, or all ! " 

She said, and left them, adding, " if you can ! " 

With silent lips, nor cared what prudent fears, 

Old-fashioned wisdom, dropped in parrot-words, 

Chattered behind her as she climbed the lane. 

Along her path the unconverted bees 

Set toil to music, and the elder-flowers 

Bent o'er the gate a snowy entrance-arch, 

Where, highest on the slope, her cottage sat. 

Her bed of pinks there yielded to the sun 

Its clove and cinnamon odors ; sheltered there 

Beneath the eaves, a rose-tree nursed its buds, 

And through the door, across the dusk within, 

She saw her grandam set the morning broth 

And cut a sweeter loaf. All breathed of peace, 

Of old, indulgent love, and simple needs, 

Yet Brita sighed, — then blushed because she sighed. 

u Dear Lord ! " the ancient dame began, " 't is just 
The day, the sun, the breeze, the smell of flowers, 
As fifty years ago, in Hallingdal, 
When I, like thee, picked out my smartest things, 
And put them on, half guessing what would hap, 
And found my luck before I took them off. 
See ! thou shalt wear the brooch, my mother's then, 
And thine when I am gone. Some luck, who knows 1 
May still be shining in the fair red stone." 
So, from a box that breathed of musky herbs, 
She took the boss of roughly fashioned gold, 



LARS. 305 

With garnets studded : took, but gave not yet. 

Some pleasure in the smooth, cool touch of gold, 

Or wine-red sparkles, flickering o'er the stones, 

Or dream of other fingers, other lips 

That kissed them for the bed they rocked upon 

That happy summer eve in Hallingdal, 

Gave her slow heart its girlhood's pulse again, 

Her cheek one last leaf of its virgin rose. 

Oh, foolishness of age ! She dared not say 
What then she felt : Go, child, enjoy the bliss 
Of innocent woman, ripe for need of man, 
Aud needing him no less ! Some natural art 
Will guide thy guileless fancies, some pure voice 
Will whisper truth, and lead thee to thy fate ! 
But, ruled by ancient habit, counselled thus : 
' Be on thy guard, my Brita ! men are light 
Of tongue, and unto faces such as thine 
Mean not the half they say : the girl is prized 
Who understands their ways, and holds them off 
Till he shall come, who, facing her, as she 
And death were one, pleads for his life with her : 
When such an one thou meetest, thou wilt know." 

' Nay, grandam ! " Brita said ! " I will not hear 

A voice so dreadful-earnest : I am young, 

And I can give and take, not meaning much, 

Nor over-anxious to seem death to men: 

I like them all, aud they are good to me. 

I '11 wear thy brooch, and may it bring me luck, 

Not such as thine was, as I guess it was, 

But, in the kirk, short sermon, cheerful hymn, 

Good neighbors on the way, and for the dance 

A light-foot partner ! " With a rippling laugh 

That brushed the surface of her heart, and hid 

Whatever doubt its quiet" had betrayed, 

She kis.-ed the withered cheek, and on her breast 

Pinned the rough golden boss with wine-red stones. 
' Come, Brita, come ! " rang o'er the elder-flowers : 
1 1 come ! " she answered, threw her fleeting face 

Upon the little mirror, took her bunch 

Of feathered pinks, and joined the lively group 

Of Sundayed lads and lasses in the lane. 

They set themselves to climb the stubborn fell 
By stony stairs that left the fields below, 
And ceased, far up, against the nearer blue. 
But lightly sprang the maids ; and where the slides 
Of ice ground smooth the slanting planes of rock, 
Strong arms drew up and firm feet steadied theirs. 
Here lent the juniper a prickly hand, 
And there they grasped the heather's frowsy hair, 
While jest and banter made the giddy verge 
Secure as orchard-turf ; and none but showed 
The falcon's eye that guides the hunter's foot, 
Till o'er their flushed and breathless faces struck 
The colder ether; on the crest they stood, 
*i nd sheltered vale and ever-winding fiord 
20 



306 LARS. 

Sank into gulfs of shadow, while afar 

To eastward many a gleaming tooth of snow 

Cut the full round of sky. 

" Why, look you, now ' 
Cried one : " the fiord is bare as threshing-floor 
When winter 's over : what 's become of Per 1 " 
u And what of Lars ? " asked Ragnil, with a glance 
At Brita's careless face ; " can he have climbed 
The Evil Pass, and crossed the thundering foss, 
His nearest way 1 " As clear as blast of horn 
There came a cry, and on the comb beyond 
They saw the sparkle of a scarlet vest. 
Then, like the echo of a blast of horn, 
A moment later, fainter and subdued, 
A second cry ; and far to left appeared 
A form that climbed and leaped, and nearer strove 
And Harald, Anders Ericssen, and Nils 
Set their three voices to accordant pitch 
And shouted one wild call athwart the blue, 
Until it seemed to quiver : as they ceased 
The maids began, and, moving onward, gave 
Strong music : all the barren summits rang. 

So from the shouts and girlish voices grew 
The wayward chorus of a sceter-song, 
Such as around the base of Skagtolstind 
The chant of summer-jotun seems, when all 
The herds are resting and the herdsmen meet ; 
And while it swept with swelling, sinking waves 
The crags and ledges, Lars had joined the band, 
And from the left came Per ; and Brita walked 
Between them where the path was broad, but whei 
It narrowed to such track as tread the sheep 
Round slanting shoulder and o'er rocky spur 
To reach the rare, sweet herbage, one went close 
Before her, one behind, and unto both 
With equal cheer and equal kindliness 
Her speech was given : so both were glad of heart 

A herdsman, woodman, hunter, Lars was strong, 
Yet silent from his life upon the hills. 
Beneath dark lashes gleamed his darker eyes 
Like mountain-tarns that take their changeless hti€ 
From shadows of the pine : in all his ways 
He showed that quiet of the upper world 
A breath can turn to tempest, and the force 
Of rooted firs that slowly split the stone. 
But Per was gay with laughter of the seas 
Which were his home : the billow breaking blue 
On the Norwegian skerries flashed again 
Within his sunbright eyes ; and in his tongue, 
Set to the louder, merrier key it learned 
In hum of rigging, roar of wind and tide, 
The rhythm of ocean and its wilful change 
Allured all hearts as ocean lures the land. 
Now which, this daybreak with his yellow locke, 
Or yonder twilight, calm, mysterious, filled 
With promise of its stars, shall turn the mind 



LARS. 307 

Of the light maiden who is neither fain 

To win nor lose, since, were the other not, 

Then each were welcome ? — how should maid decide ! 

For that the passion of the twain was marked, 

And haply envied, and a watch was set, 

She would be strong: and, knowing, seem as though 

She nothing knew, until occasion came 

To bid her choose, or teach her how to choose. 

On each and all the soberness of morn 

Yet lay, the weight of hard reality 

That even clogs the callow wings of love ; 

And now descending, where the broader vale 

Showed farm on farm, and groves of birch and oak, 

And fields that shifted gloss like shimmering silk, 

The kirk-bells called them through the mellow air, 

Slow-swinging, till, as from a censer's cup 

The smoke diffused makes all the minster sweet, 

The peace they chimed pervaded earth and sky. 

As under foliage of the lower land 

The pathway led, more harmless fell the jest, 

The laugh less frequent : then the maidens drew 

Apart, set smooth their braids, their kirtles shook, 

And grave, decorous as a troop of nuns, 

Entered the little town. Ragnil alone 

And Anders Ericssen together walked, 

For twice already had their banns been called. 

Lars shot one glance at Brita, as to say : 

Were thou and I thus promised, side by side ! " 

Then looked away ; but Per, who kept as near 

As decent custom let, all softly sang : 

Forget me thou, I shall remember still ! " 

That she might hear him, and so not forget. 

Thus onward to the gray old kirk they moved. 

The bells had ceased to chime : the hush within 

With holy shuddering from the organ-bass 

Was filled, and when it died the prayer arose. 

Then came another stillness, as the Lord 

Were near, or bent to listen from afar, 

And last the text ; but Brita found it strange. 

Thus read the pastor : " Set me as a seal 

Upon thy heart, yea, set me as a seal 

Upon thine arm ; for love is strong as death, 

And jealousy is cruel as the grave." 

She felt the garnets burn upon her breast, 

As if all fervor of the olden love 

Still heated them, and fire of jealousy, 

And to herself she thought : " Has any face 

Looked on me with a love as strong as death ? 

But I am Life, and how am I to know 1 " 

Then, straightway weary of the puzzle, she 

Began to wander with her dancing thoughts 

Out o'er the fell, and up and down the slopes 

Of sunny grass, while ever and anon 

The preacher's solemn voice struck through her Jrears 

Its sound a menace and its sense unknown. 

Then she was sad, and vexed that she was sad 



308 LARS. 

And vexed with them who only could have caused 
Her sadness : " Gran dam's luck, forsooth ! " she thought 
u If one were luck, why, two by rights were more, 
But two a plague, a lesser plague were one, 
And not a fortune ! " So, till service ceased, 
And all arose when benediction came, 
She mused with pettish thrust of under lip, 
Nor met the yearning eyes of Lars and Per. 

The day's grave duty done, forth issued all, 
Foregathering with the Vossevangen youth, 
The girls of Graven and the boys of Vik, 
Where under elms before the guest-house front 
Stood tables brown with age : already bore 
The host his double-handed bunch of cans 
Fresh-filled and foaming ; and the cry of Skoal! 
Mixed with the clashing ki^s of glassy lips. 
But when in gown of black the pastor came, 
All rose, respectful, waiting for his words. 
A pace in front stood Anders Ericssen, 
Undignified in bridegroom dignity, 
Because too conscious : Ragnil blushed with shame, 
And all the maidens envied her the shame, 
When reverend fingers tapped her cheek, and he, 
That good man, said : " How fares my bonny bride '■. 
She must not be the last this summer ; look, 
My merry lads, what harvest waits for you ! " 
And on the maidens turned his twinkling eyes, 
That beamed a blessing with the playful words. 

Then Lars slipped nearer Brita, where she stood 
Withdrawn a little, underneath the trees. 

* You heard the pastor," said he ; "would you next 
Put on the crown 1 not you the harvest, nay, 
The reaper, rather ; and the grain is ripe." 

* A field," she answered, " may be ripe enough 
When half the heads are empty, and the stalks 
Are choked with cockle. I 've no mind to reap. 
Indeed, I know not what you mean : the speech 
The pastor uses suits not you nor me." 

She meant reproof, yet made reproof so sweet 
By feigned impatience, which betrayed itself, 
That Lars bent lower, murmured with quick bread 
" Oh, take my meaning, Brita ! Give me one, — 
But one small word to say that you are kind, 
But one kind word to tell me you are free, 
And I not wholly hateful ! " " Lars ! " she cried, 
Her frank, sweet sympathy aroused, " not so ! 
As friendly-kind as I can be, I am, 
But free of you, and all ; and that 's enough ! 
You men would walk across the growing grain, 
And trample it because it is not ripe 
Before the harvest." Thereupon she smiled, 
Sent him one dewy glance that should have been 
Defiant, but a promise seemed; then turned, 
And hastening, almost brushed the breast of Per 
He caught her by the hands, that Viking's son, 
Whose fathers wore the eagle-helm, and stood 



LARS. 30S 

With Frithiof at the court of Angantyr, 

Or followed fair-haired Harald to the East, 

Though fishing now but herring, cod, and bass, 

Not men and merchant-galleys : he was red 

With mead, no less than sun and briny air : 

He caught her by the hands, and said, as one 

Who gives command and means to be obeyed : 
* You '11 go to Ulvik, Brita, by the fiord ! 

Bjorn brings my boat ; the wind is off the sea, 

But light as from a Bergen lady's fan : 

Say, then, you '11 go ! " 

The will within his words 

Struck Brita harshly. For a- moment she 

Pondered refusal, then, with brightening face 

Turned suddenly, and cried to all the rest : 
" How flue of Per ! we need not climb the fell : 

He '11 bear us all to Ulvik by the fiord ; 

Bjorn brings his boat : the wind is off the sea ! " 

And all the rest, with roaring skoal to Per, 

Struck hands upon the offer ; only he 

For plan so friendly showed a face too grim. 

He set his teeth and muttered : " Caught this time, 

But she shall pay it ! " till his discontent 

Passed, like a sudden squall that tears the sea, 

Yet leaves a sun to smile the billows down. 

His jovial nature, bred to change, was swayed 

By the swift consequence of Brita's whim, 

The grasp of hand, the clap of shoulder, clink 

Of brimming glass, and whispers overheard 

Of " Luck to Per, and Bjorn, and all the boys 

That reap, but sow not, on the rolling fields ! " 

And Brita, too, no sooner punished him 

Than she relented, and would fain appease ; 

Whence, fluttering to and fro, she kept the plan 

Alive, yet made its kindness wholly Per's : 

Only, when earnestly to Lars she said : 
" You '11 go with us ? " he answered sullenly : 
" I will not go : my way is o'er the fell." 

He did not quit them till they reached the strand, 

And on the stern-deck and the prow was piled 

The bright, warm freight ; then chose a dangerous path, 

A rocky ladder slanting up the crags, 

And far aloft upon a foreland took 

His seat, with chin upon his clenching hands, 

To watch and muse, in love and hate, alone. 

But they slid off upon a wind that filled 

The sail, yet scarcely heeled the boat a-lee : 

They seemed to rest above a hanging sky 

'Twixt shores that went and shores that slowly came 

In silence, and the larger shadows fell 

From heaven-high walls, a darker clearness in 

The air above, the firmament below, 

Crossed by the sparkling creases of the sea. 

Bjorn at the helm and Per to watch the wind, 

They scarcely sailed, but soared as eagle soars 

O'er Gousta's lonely peak with moveless plumes, 

That, level-set, cut the blue planes of air ; 



310 LARS. 

And out of stillness rose that sunset hymn 

Of Sicily, the sanctissima! 

That swells and fluctuates like a sleepy wave. 

Thus they swam on to where the fiord is curved 

Around the cape, where through a southward cleit 

Some wicked sprite sends down his elfish flaw r s. 

So now it chanced : the vessel sprang, and leaned 

Before the sudden strain ; but Per and Bjorn 

Held the hard bit upon their flying steed, 

And laughing, sang : " Out on the billows blue 

You needs must dance, and on the billows blue 

You sleep, a babe, rocked by the billows blue ! " 

As suddenly the gust was over : then 

Found Per a seat by Brita. " Did you fear ? " 

He said ; and she : " Who fears that sails with Per? 

" Nay then," he whispered, " never fear me more, 
A s twice to-day : w r hy give me all this freight, 
When so much less were so much more to me 1 " 

" Since when were maidens free as fishermen ? 
Not since the days of Brynhild, I believe " ; 
She answered, sharply : " I was fain to sail, 
And place for me meant place for more beside." 

" Not in my heart," he said ; " it holds and keeps 
Thee only ; thou canst not escape my love ; " 
And tried to take her hand : she bending o'er 
The low, black bulwarks, saw a crimson spark 
Drop on the surface of the pale-green wave, 
And sink, surrounded by a golden gleam. 

'■* Oh, grandam's brooch ! " she cried, and started up, 
Sat down again, and hid her face, and wept. 
Some there lamented as the loss were theirs, 
Some shook their heads in ominous dismay, 
But all agreed that, save a fish should bring 
The jewel in its maw (and tales declared 
The thing once happened), none would see it more. 
Said Guda Halstensdatter : " I should fear 
An evil, had I lost it." Thorkil cried : 

" Be silent, Guda ! Loss is grief enough 
For Brita : would you frighten her as well ? 
There 's many think that jewels go and come, 
Having some life or virtue of their own 
That drives them from us or that brings them back. 
'T was so with my great-grandam's wedding-ring." 

u Now, how was that ? " all asked ; and Thorkil spake 
** Why, not a year had she been wedded, when 
The ring was gone : how, where, a mystery. 
It was a bitter grief, but nothing happed 
Save losses, ups and downs, that come to all ■ 
Both took their lot in patience and in hope, 
And worked the harder when the luck was least- 
So from the moorland and the stony brake 
They won fresh fields ; and now, when came around 
The thirteenth harvest, and the grain was ripe 
On that new land, my grandsire, then a boy, 
One morn came leaping, shouting, from the field, 
High in his hand he held a stalk of wheat, 
And round the ripened ear, between the beards, 



LARS. 811 

Hung, like a miracle, the wedding-ring ! 

And father heard great-grandam say it shone 

So wonderful, she dropped upon her knees ; 

She thought God's finger touched it, giving back. 

Who knows what fish may pounce on Brita's brooch 

Before it reacli the bottom of the fiord, 

And then, what fisher net the fish ? " Some there 

Began to smile at this, and Per's blue eyes 

Danced with a cheerful light, as, in the cove 

Of Ulvik entered, fell his sagging sail. 

No more spake Brita; homeward up the hill 

She walked alone, sobbing with grief and dread. 

The world goes round : the sun sets on despair, 

The morrow makes it hope. Each little life 

Thinks the great axle of the universe 

Turns on its fate, and finds impertinence 

In joy or grief conflicting with its own. 

Yet fate is woven from unnoted threads; 

Each life is centred in the life of all, 

And from the meanest root some fibre runs 

Which chance or destiny may intertwine 

With those that feed a force or guiding thought, 

To rule the world : so goes the world around. 

And Brita's loss, that made all things seem dark, 

Was soon outgrieved : came Anders' wedding-day 

And Kagnil's, and the overshining joy 

Of these two hearts fr»m others drove the shade. 

Forth from her home the ruddy bride advanced, 

Not fair, but made so by her bridal bliss, 

The tall crown on her brow, and in her hand 

The bursting nosegay : Anders, washed and sled. .1 

With ribbons on his hat, from head to foot 

Conscious of all he wore, each word he spake, 

And every action for the day prescribed, 

Stuck to "her side. It was a trying time ; 

But when the strange truth was declared at last 

That they were man and wife, so greeted with 

The cries of flute and fiddle, crack of guns, 

And tossing of the blossom-brightened hats, 

They breathed more freely ; and the guests were glad 

That this was over, since the festival 

Might now begin, and mirth be lord of all. 

In Ragnil's father, Halfdan's home, the casks 

Of mead were tapped, the Dantzig brandy served 

In small old glasses, and the platters broad, 

Heaped high with salmon, cheese, and caviar, 

Tempted and soothed before the heavier meal. 

No guest in duty failed ; and Per began — 

The liquor's sting, the day's infection warm 

Upon his blood — to fix his sweetheart's word, 

Before some wind should blow it otherwhere. 
* Your hand, my Brita," stretching his, — " your hand 

For all the dances : see, my heels are tight ! 

I have a right to ask you for amends, 

But ask it as a kindness." "Nay," she said, 
u You have no right ; but I will dance one dance 



S12 LARS. 

With you, as any other." " Will you then ? " 
He cried, and caught her sharply by the wrist : 
" I '11 not be ' any other,' do you hear 1 
I '11 be the one, the only one, whose foot 
Keeps time with yours, my heart the tune thereto ! ,; 
Then shouting comrades whirled him from her side, 
And Ragnil called the maids, to show her stores 
Of fine-spun linen, lavendered and cool 
In nutwood chests, her bed and canopy 
Painted with pictures of the King and Queen, 
And texts from Scripture, o'er the pillows curled 
Where she and Anders should that night repose. 
They shut the door to keep the lads without, 
Then shyly stole away ; and Brita found 
Alone, among the garden bushes, Lars. 

His eyes enlarged and brightened as she came ; 
He said, in tones whose heaitful sweetness made 
Her pulses thrill: " I will not-bind you yet : 
Dance only first w r ith me that sceter-dance 
You learned on Graafell : Nils will play the air. 
Then take your freedom, favor whom you will. 
I shall not doubt you, now and evermore." 
M But, Lars " — she said, then paused ; he would not wai 
The mirthful guests drew near. " I '11 keep you, then," 
He whispered ; " till I needs must let you go. 
This much will warm me on the windy fells, 
Make sunshine of the mists, melt frost in dew, 
And paint the rocks with roses." Could she turn 
From that brave face, those calm, confiding eyes ? 
Could she, in others' sight, reject the hand 
Now leading to the board ? If so, too late 
Decision came, for she had followed him, 
And sat beside him when the horns of mead 
Made their slow pilgrimage from mouth to mouth, 
And while the stacks of bread sank low, the haunch 
Of stall-fed ox diminished to the bone, 
Till multeberries, Bergen gingerbread, 
With wine of Spain, made daintier end of all. 
Then, like a congress of the blackbirds, held 
In ancient tree-tops on October eves, 
The tables rang and clattered ; but, erelong, 
Brisk hands had stripped them bai-e, and, turning dowx 
The leaves, made high-backed settles by the wall. 

Through all the bustle and the din were heard 

The fiddle-strings of Nils, as one by one 

They chirped and squeaked in dolorous complaint, 

Until the bent ear and the testing bow 

Found them accordant : then a flourish came 

That scampered up and down the scale, and lapsed 

In one long note that hovered like a bird, 

Uncertain where to light; but so not long : 

It darted soon, a lark above the fells, 

And spun in eddying measures. Here a pair, 

And there another, took the vacant floor, 

Then Lars and Brita, sweeping in the dance 

That whirled and paused, as if a mountain gust 



LARS. 313 

Blew them together, tossed, and tore apart. 

And ever, when the wild refrain came round, 

Lars flung himself and sidewards turned in air, 

Yet missed no beat of music when he fell. 
" By holy Olaf ! " gray-haired Halfdan cried : 
" There 's not a trick we knew in good old days, 

But he has caught it : so I danced myself." 

Upon the sweeping circles entered Per, 

Held back, at first, and partially controlled 

By them who saAV the current of his wrath, 

And whitherward it set ; but now, when slacked 

The fiery pulses of the dance, he broke 

Through all, and rudely thrust himself on Lars. 
" Your place belongs to me," he hoarsely cried, — 
" Your place and partner ! " "Brita 's free to choose," 

Said Lars, " and may be bidden ; but this floor 

Is not your deck, nor are you captain mine : 

I think your throat has made your head forget." 

Lars spake the truth that most exasperates : 

His words were oil on flame, and Per resolved, 

So swayed by reckless anger, to defy 

Then, once, and wholly. "Deck or not," said he, 
" You know what right I mean : you stand where I 

Allow you not : I warn you off the field ! " 

Lars turned to Brita : " Does he speak for you 1 " • 

She shook her head, but what with shame and fear 

Said nothing : " We have danced our sceter-dance," 

He further spake, " and now I go : when next 

We meet at feast, I claim another such." 
"Aye, claim it, claim ! " Per shouted ; "but you '11 first 

Try knives with me, for blood shall run between 

Your words and will : where you go, I shall be." 
" So be it : bid your mother bring your shroud ! " 

Lars answered ; and he left the marriage house. 

The folk of Ulvik knew, from many a tale 

Of feud and fight, from still transmitted hates 

And old Berserker madness in their blood, 

What issue hung : but whoso came between 

Marked that the mediation dwelt with her 

Who stood between : if she would choose, why, then 

The lover foiled forsooth must leave in peace 

The lover favored, — further strife were vain. 

But Lars was far upon the windy heights, 

And Per beyond the skerries on the sea, 

And Ragnil bustling busy as a wife, 

That might have helped ; while those to Brita came, 

More meddlesome than kind, who hurt each nerve 

They touched for healing. What could she, but cry 

In tears and anger : " Shall I seek them out, 

Bestow myself on one, take pride for love, 

And forfeit thus all later pride in me ? 

Rather refuse them both, and on myself 

Turn hate of both : their knives, i' faith ! were dull 

Beside your cutting tongues ! " She vowed, indeed, 

In moonlit midnights, when she could not sleep, 

And either window framed a rival face, 

That seemed to wait, with se', reproachful eyes, 



314 LARS. 

To smile on neither, hold apart and off 
Their fatal kindness. She repel, that drew ? 
As if an open rose could will away 
Its hue and scent, a lily arm its stem 
With thorns, a daisy turn against the sun ! 

The fields were reaped ; the longer shadows thrown 

From high Hardanger and the eastern range 

Began to chill the vales : it was the time 

When on the meadow by the lonely lake 

Of Graven, from the regions round about 

The young men met to hold their wrestling-match, 

As since the days of Olaf they had done. 

There, too, the maids came and the older folk, 

Delighting in the grip of strength and skill, 

The strain of sinew, stubbornness of joint, 

And urge of meeting muscles. All the place 

Was thronged, and loud the cheers and laughter rang 

When some old champion fr6m a rival vale 

Bent before fresher arms, and from his base 

Wrenched ere he knew, fell heavily to earth. 

Until the sun across the fir-trees laid 

His lines of level gold, they watched the bouts ; 

Then strayed by twos and threes toward the sound 

Of wassail in the houses and the booths. 

And Brita with her Ulvik gossips went. 

Once only, when a Laerdal giant brought 

Sore grief upon the men of Vik, she saw 

Or seemed to see, beyond the stormy ring, 

The shape of Lars ; but, scarce disquieted 

If it were he, or if the twain were there, 

(Since blood, she thought, must surely cool in time,) 

She followed to the house upon the knoll 

Where ever came and went, like bees about 

Their hive's low doorway, groups of merry folk. 

A mellow dusk already filled the room ; 

The chairs were pushed aside, and on the stove, 

As on a throne of painted clay, sat Nils. 

Behold ! Lars waited there ; and as she reached 

The inner circle round the dancing-floor 

He moved to meet her, and began to say 

* Thanks fot the last " — when from the other side 
Strode Per. 

The two before her, face to face 
Stared at each other : Brita looked at them. 
All three were pale ; and she, with faintest voice, 
Remembering counsel of the tongues unkind, 
Could only breathe : " I know not how to choose." 

" No need ! " said Lars : " I choose for you," said Per. 
Then both drew off and threw aside their coats, 
Their broidered waistcoats, and the silken scarves 
About their necks ; but Per growled " All ! " and mad« 
His body bare to where the leathern belt 
Is clasped between the breast-bone and the hip. 
Lars did the same ; then, setting tight the belts, 
Both turned a little : the low daylight clad 
Their forms with awful fairness, beauty now 



LARS. 315 

Of life, so warm and ripe and glorious, yet 

So near the beauty terrible of Death. 

All saw the mutual sign, and understood ; 

And two stepped forth, two men with grizzled hail 

And earnest faces, grasped the hooks of steel 

In either's belt, and drew them breast to breast, 

And in the belts made fast each other's hooks. 

An utter stillues on the people fell 

While this was done : each face was stern and strange 

And Brita, powerless to turn her eves, 

Heard herself cry, and started: "Per, Per!" 

When those two backward stepped, all saw the flash 
Of knives, the lift of arms, the instant clench 
Of hands that held and hands that strove to strike : 
All heard the sound of quick and hard-drawn breath, 
And naught beside ; but sudden red appeared, 
Splashed on the white of shoulders and of arms. 
Then, thighs entwined, and all the body's force 
Called to the mixed resistance and assault, 
They reeled and swayed, let go the guarding clutch 
And struck out madly. Per drew back, and aimed 
A deadly blow, but Lars embraced him close, 
K cached o'er his shoulder and from underneath 
Thrust upward, while upon his ribs the knife, 
Glancing, transfixed the arm. A gasp was heard : 
The struggling limbs relaxed ; and both, still bound 
Together, fell upon the bloody floor. 

Some forward sprang, and loosed, and lifted them 

A little ; but the head of Per hung back, 

With lips apart and dim blue eyes unshut, 

And all the passion and the pain were gone 

Forever. " Dead ! " a voice exclaimed ; then she, 

Like one who stands in darkness, till a blaze 

Of blinding lightning paints the whole broad world, 

Saw, burst her stony trance, and with a cry 

Of love and grief and horror, threw herself 

Upon his breast, and kissed his passive mouth, 

And loud lamented: "Oh, too late I know 

I love thee best, my Per, my sweetheart Per ! 

Thy will was strong, thy ways were masterful ; 

I did not guess that love might so command ! 

Thou wert my ruler : I resisted thee, 

But blindly : Oh, come back ! — I will obey." 

Within the breast of Lars the heart beat on, 
Yet faintly, as a wheel more slowly turns 
AY hen summer drouth has made the streamlet thin 
They staunched the gushing life ; they raised him up. 
And sense came back and cleared his clouded eye 
At Brita's voice. He tried to stretch his hand : 
Where art thou, Brita ? It is time to choose : 
Take what is left of him or me ! " He paused : 
She did not answer. Stronger came his voice : 
' I think that I shall live : forget all this ! 
'T was not my doing, shall not be again, 
If only thou wilt love me as I love." 



316 LARS. 



' I love thee ? " Brita cried ; " who murderest him 
I loved indeed ! Why should I wish thee life, 
Except to show thee I can hate instead ? " 
A groan so deep, so desperate and sad 
Came from his throat, that men might envy him 
Who lay so silent ; then they bore him forth, 
While others smoothed the comely limbs of Per. 
His mother, next, unrolled the decent shroud 
She brought with her, as ancient custom bade, 
To do him honor ; for man's death he died, 
Not shameful straw-death of the sick and old. 



BOOK II. 

Lars lived, because the life within his frame 
Refused to leave it ; but his heart was dead, 
He thought, for nothing moved him any more- 
He spake not Brita's name, and every path 
Where he had scattered fancies of the maid 
Like seeds of flowers, but whence, instead, had growi 
Malignant briers, to clog and tear his feet, 
Was hated now : so, all that once seemed life, 
So bright with power and purpose, rich in chance, 
And dropping rest from every cloud of toil, 
Became a weariness of empty days. 

Thus, not to 'scape the blood-revenge for Per 
Which Thorsten vowed, his brother : not to shun 
The tongues and eyes of censure or reproach, 
Or spoken pity, angering more than these ; 
But since each rock upon the lonely fell 
Kept echoes of her voice, each cleft of blue 
Where valleys wandered downward to the wave 
Held shadows of her form, each meadow-sod 
Her footprints, — all the land so filled with her, 
Once hope, delight, but desolation now, — 
Forth must he go, beyond his father's hearth, 
Beyond the vales, beyond the teeth of snow, 
The shores and skerries, till the world become 
Too wide for knowledge of his evil fate, 
Too strange for memory of his ruined love ! 

He recked not where ; but into passive moods 

Some spirit drops a leaven, to point anew 

Men's aimless forces. Was it only chance 

That now recalled a long-forgotten tale ? 

How Leif, his mother's grandsire, crossed the seas 

To those new lands the great Gustavus claimed: 

How, in The Key of old Calmar, their ship, 

A trooper he, with Printz the Governor, 

Sailed days and weeks ; the blue would never turn 

To shallower green, and landsmen moped in dread, 

Till shores grew up they scarce believed were such. 

Low-lying, fresh, as if the hand of God 

Had lately finished them. But farther on 

The curving bay to one broad river led, 

Where cabins nestled on the rising banks, 



LARS. 317 

With mighty woods, and mellow intervale*., 

Inviting corn and cattle. Then rejoiced 

The Swedish farmers, and were set ashore : 

But on the level isle of Tinicum 

Printz built a fort, and there the trooper, Leif, 

Abode three years : and he was fain to tell, 

When wounds and age had crippled him, how fair 

And fruitful was the land, how full of sun 

And bountiful in streams, — and pity 't was 

The strong Norse blood could not have stocked it all ! 

Lars knew not why these stories should return 
To haunt his gloomy brain : but it was so, 
And on the current of his memory launched 
His thought, and followed ; then neglected will 
Awoke, and on the track of thought embarked, 
And soon his life was borne away from all 
It knew, and burst the adamantine ring 
Which bound its world within the greater world. 
As one who, wandering by the water-side, 
Steps in an empty boat, and sits him down, 
Not knowing that his step has loosed the chain, 
And drifts away, unwitting, on the tide, 
So he was drifted : no farewell he spake, 
But happy Ulvik and the fiord and fell 
Passed from his eyes, and underneath his feet 
The world went round, until he found himself, 
Like one aroused from sleep, upon the hills 
That roll, the heavings of the boundless blue. 

As unto Leif, his mother's grandsire, so 

To him it seemed the blue would never turn 

To shallower green, till shining fisher-sails 

Came, stars of land that rose before the land ; 

Then fresher shores and climbing river-banks, 

And broken woods and mellow intervales, 

With houses, com, and cattle. There, perchance, 

He dreamed, the memory of Leif might bide 

Upon the level isle of Tinicum, 

Or farms of Swedish settlers : if 't were so, 

One stone was laid whereon to build a home. 

But when the vessel at the city's wharf 

Dropped anchor, and the bright new land was won, 

The high red houses and the sober throngs 

Were strange to him, and strange the garb and speech. 

Awhile he lingered there ; until, outgrown 

The tongue's first blindness and the stranger's shame, 

His helpless craft was turned again to use. 

Then sought he countrymen, and, finding now 

Within the Swedish Church at Weccacoe 

No Norse but in the features, else all changed, 

He left and wandered down the Delaware 

Unto the isle of Tinicum ; and there 

Of all that fortress of the valiant Printz 

Some yellow bricks remained. The name of Leif 

Who should remember I Do we call to mind, 

Years afterward, the clover-head we plucked 



31* LARS. 



Seine mom of June, and smelled, and threw away ? 

But when we find a life erased and lost 

Beneath the multitude's unsparing feet, — 

A life so clearly heating yet for us 

In hlood and memory, — comes a sad surprise : 

So Lars went onward, losing hope of good, 

To where, upon her hill, fair "Wilmington 

Looks to the river over marshy meads. 

He saw the low hrick church, with stunted tower, 

The portal-arches, ivied now and old, 

And passed the gate : lo ! there, the ancient stones 

Bore Norland names and dear, familiar words! 

It seemed the dead a comfort spake : he read, 

Thrusting the nettles and the vines aside, 

And softly wept : he knew not why he wept, 

But here was something in the strange new land 

That made a home, though growing out of graves. 

Led hy a faith that rest could not be far, 
Beyond the town, where deeper vales bring down 
The winding brooks from Pennsylvanian hills, 
He walked : the ordered farms were fair to see, 
And fair the peaceful houses : old repose 
Mellowed the lavish newness of the land, 
And sober toil gave everywhere the right 
To simple pleasures. As by each he passed, 
A spirit whispered : " No, not there ! " and then 
His sceptic heart said : " Never anywhere ! " 

The sun was low, when, with the valley's bend, 

There came a change. Two willow-fountains flung 

And showered their leafy streams before a house 

Of rusty stone, with chimneys tall and white ; 

A meadow stretched below ; and dappled cows, 

Full-fed, were waiting for their evening call. 

The garden lay upon a sunny knoll, 

An orchard dark behind it, and the barn, 

With wide, warm wings, a giant mother-bird, 

Seemed brooding o'er its empty summer nest. 

Then Lars upon the roadside bank sat down, 

For here was peace that almost seemed despair, 

So near his eyes, so distant from his life 

It lay : and while he mused, a woman came 

Forth from the house, no servant-maid more plain 

In her attire, yet, as she nearer drew, 

Her still, sweet face, and pure, untroubled eyes 

Spake gentle blood. A browner dove she seemed, 

Without the shifting iris of the neck, 

And when she spake her voice was like a dove's, 

Soft, even-toned, and sinking in the heart. 

Lars could not know that loss and yearning made 

His eyes so pleading ; he but saw how hers 

Bent on him as some serious angel's might 

Upon a child, strayed in the wilderness. 

She paused, and said : "Thou seemest weary, friend, 

But he, instead of answer, clasped his hands. 

The silent gesture wrought upon her mind : 

She marked the alien face ; then, with a smile 



LAES. 3 1 

That meant and made excuse for needful words, 

She said : " Perhaps thou dost not understand 1 * 
' I understand," Lars answered ; " you are good. 

Indeed, I 'm weary : not in hands and feet, 

But tired of idly owning them. I see 

A thousand fields where I could take my bread 

Nor stint the harvest, and a thousand roofs 

That shelter corners where my head might rest, 

Nor steal another's pillow ! " 

As to seek 

The meaning of his words, she mused a space. 

In that still land of homes, how should she guess 

What fancies haunt a homeless heart"? Yet his 

Was surely need : so, presently, she spake : 
u Work only waits, I 've thought, for willing hands ; 

A meal and shelter for the night, we give 

To all that ask ; what more is possible 

Rests with my father." Lars arose and went 

Beside her, where the cows came loitering on 

With udders swelled, and meadow-scented breath, 

Through opened bars and up the grassy lane. 
" Ho, Star ! " and " Pink ! " he called them coaxingly 

In soft Norse words : they stared as if they knew. 
M See, lady ! " then he cried: " the honest things 

Like him that likes them, over all the world." 

But " Nay," she said, " not ' lady ' ! — call me Ruth : 

My father's name is Ezra Mendenhall, 

And hither comes he : I Avill speak for thee." 

So Lars was sheltered, and when evening fell, 
And all, around the clean and peaceful board, 
Kept the brief silence which is fittest prayer 
Before the bread is broken, he was filled 
With something calm which was akin to peace, 
With something restless, which was almost hope. 
The white-haired man with placid forehead sat 
And faced him, grave as any Bergen judge, 
Yet kindly ; he the stranger's claim allowed, 
And ample space for hunger, ere he spake : 
4 What, then, might be thy name 1 " " My name is Lars, 
The son of Thorsten, in the Norway land. 
My father said the blood of heathen kings 
Runs in our veins, but Ave are Christian men, 
Who work the more because of idle sires, 
And speak the truth, and try to live good lives." 

Lars ceased, as if a blow had closed his mouth, 
But Ezra said : " The name sounds heathenish, 
Indeed, yet hardly royal ; blood is naught to us, 
Yea, less than naught, or I, whose fathers served 
The third man Edward, and his kindly wife, 
Philippa, loved the vanities of courts 
And cast away the birthright of their souls, 
Were now, perchance, a worldly popinjay, 
The Lord forgetting and provoking Him 
Me to forget. But this is needless talk : 
Thy hands declare that thou art bred to work ; 
Thy face, nethinks, is truthful ; if thy life 



120 LARS. 

Be good, I know not. I can trust no more 

Than knowledge justifies, and charity 

Bids us assume until the knowledge comes." 

" No more I ask," Lars answered ; " simple ways 
To me are home-ways : I can learn to serve, 
Because, when others served me, I was just." 

" Our ways are strange to thee," said Ezra ; ' thine 
Unsuitable, if here too long retained. 
The just in spirit find in outward things 
A voice and testimony, which may not 
Be lightly changed : what say est thou to this? " 

" To change in mine ? Why, truly, 't were no change 
To do thy bidding, yet to call thee friend ; 
To use the speech of brethren, as at home ; 
And, feigning not the faith that still may part, 
To bide in charity till knowledge comes, — 
So much, without a promise, I should give." 

" Thou speakest fairly," Ezra said ; " to me 
Is need of labor less than faithful will, 
But this includes the other : if thou stand 
The easier test, the greater then may come. 
The man who feels his duty makes his own 
The beasts he tends or uses, and the fields, 
Though all may be another's." " Then," said Ruth, ' 

:t My cows already must belong to Lars : 
His speech was strange, and yet they understood." 

So Lars remained. That night, beneath the roof, 

His head lay light ; the very wind that breathed 

Its low, perpetual wail among the boughs 

Sufficed to cheer him, and the one dim star 

That watched him from the highest heaven of heaven§ 

Made morning in his heart. Too soon passed off 

The exalted mood, too soon his rich content 

Was tarnished by the daily round of toil, 

And all things grown familiar ; yet his pride, 

That rose at censure for each petty fault 

Of ignorance, supported while it stung. 

And Ezra Mendenhall was just, and Ruth 

Serenely patient, sweetly calm and kind : 

ISo, month by month, the even da\s were born 

And died, the nights were drowned in deeper rpst, 

And fields and fences, streams and stately woods, 

Fashioned themselves to suit his newer life, 

Till ever fainter grew those other forms 

Of fiord and fell, the high Hardanger range, 

And Romsdal's teeth of snow. Yea, Brita's eyes 

And Per's hot face he learned to hold away, 

Save when they vexed his helpless soul in dreams 

The land was called Hockessin. O'er its hills, 
High, wide, and fertile, blew a healthy air : 
There was a homestead set wherever fell 
4 sunward slope, and breathed its crystal vein, 



LARS. 321 



And up beyond the woods, at crossing roads, 
The heart of all, the ancient meeting-house ; 
And Lars went thither on an autumn morn. 
Beside him went, it happened, Abner Cloud, 
A neighbor; rigid in the sect, and rich, 
And it was rumored that he crossed tbe hill 
To Ezra's house, oftener than neighbor-wise 
This knew not Lars : but Abner's eye, he thought, 
Fell not upon him as a friend's should fall, 
And Abner's tongue perplexed bim, for its tone 
Was harsh or sneering when his words were fair. 
He spake from every quarter, as a man 
Who seeks a tender spot, or wound unhealed, 
And probes the surface which he seems to soothe 
Until some nerve betrays infirmity. 
This, only, were the two alone : if Ruth 
Came near, his face grew mild as curded milk, 
And unctuous kindness overflowed his lips 
Precise and thin, as who should godlier be ? 
Perhaps he wooed, but 't was a wooing strange, 
Lars fancied, or his heart Avere other stuff 
Than those are made of which can bless or slay. 
It was a silent meeting. Here the men 
And there the women sat, the elder folk 
Facing the younger from their rising seats, 
With faces grave beneath the stiff, straight brim 
Or dusky bonnet. They the stillness breathed 
Like some high air wherein their souls were free, 
And on their features, as on those that guard 
The drifted portals of Egyptian fanes, 
Sat mystery : the Spirit they obeyed 
By voice or silence, as the influence fell, 
Was near them, or their common seeking made 
A spiritual Presence, mightier than the grasp 
Of each, possessed in reverence by all. 
But o'er the soul of Lars there lay the shade 
Of his own strangeness : peace came not to him 
Awhile he idly watched the flies that crawled 
Along the hard, bare pine, or marked, in front, 
The close-cut hair and flaring lobes of ears, 
Until his mind turned on itself, and made 
A wizard twilight, where the shapes of life 
Shone forth and faded : subtler sense awoke, 
But dream-like first, and then the form of Per 
Became a living presence which abode ; 
And all the pain and trouble of the past 
Threatened like something evil yet to come. 
At last, that phantasm of his memory sat 
Beside him, and would not be banished thence 
By will or prayer : he lifted up his face, 
And met the cold gray eyes of Abner Cloud. 

The man, thenceforward, seemed an enemy, 
And Ruth, he scarce knew why, but all her way* 
So cheered and soothed, a power to subjugate 
The devil in his heart. But now the leaver 
Flashed into glittering jewels ere they fell , 
21 



322 LARS. 

The pastures lessened, and, when day was done, 
Came quiet evenings, bare of tale and song, 
Such as beneath Norwegian rafters shook 
Tired lids awake ; and wearisome to Lars, 
Till Ruth, who noted, fetched the useless books 
Of school-girl days, and portioned him his task, 
Herself the teacher. Oft would Ezra smile 
To note her careful and unyielding sway. 
" Nay, now," he said ; " I thought our speech was plain, 
But thou dost hedge each common phrase with thorns, 
Like something rare : dost thou not make it hard 1 " 
" A right foundation, father," she replied, 
" Makes easy building : thus it is in life. 
I teach thee, Lars, no other than the Lord 
Requires of all, through discipline that makes 
His goodness hard until it lives in us." 
With paler cheeks Lars turned him to his task, 
Thus innocently smitten ; but his mind 
Increased in knowledge, till the alien tongue 
Obeyed the summons of his thought. So toil 
Brought freedom, and the winter passed away. 

Where Lars was blind, the eyes of Abner Cloud 

Saw more than was. This school-boy giant drew, 

He fancied, like a rank and chance-sown weed 

Beside some wholesome plant, the strength away 

From his desire, of old and rightful root. 

'T was not that Ruth should love the stranger, — no ! 

But woman's interest is lightly caught, 

So hers by Lars, that might have turned to him. 

Had he not worldly goods, and honest name, 

And birthright in the meeting 1 Who could weigh 

Unknown with these deserts 1 — but gentleness 

Is blind, and goodness ignorant ; so he, 

By malice made sagacious, learned to note 

The large, strong veins that filled and rose, although 

The tongue was still, the clench of powerful hands, 

The trouble hiding in the gloomy eye, 

And wrought on these by cunning words. But most 

He played with forms of Scandinavian faith 

In that old time before King Olaf came, 

And made their huge, divine barbarities, 

Their strength and slaughter, fields of frost and blood, 

More hideous. " These are fables, thou wilt claim," 

It was his wont to say ; " but such must nurse 

A people false and cruel." 

Then would Lars 
Reply with heat : " Not so ! but honest folk, instead, 
Too frank to hide the face of any fault, 
And free from all the evil crafts that breed 
In hearts of cowards ! " 

Ruth, it rarely chaiced, 
Heard aught of this, but when she heard, her voice 
Came firm and clear : " Indeed, it is not good 
To drag those times forth from their harmless graves 
Their ignorance and wicked strength are dead, 
And what of good they knew was not their own, 
But oars as well : this is our sole concern. 



LARS. 323 

To feed the life of goodness in ourselves 
And all, that so the world at last escape 
The darkness of our fathers far away." 

As when some malady within the frame 
Is planted, slowly tainting all the blood, 
And underneath the seeming healthy skin 
In secret grows till strong enough to smite 
With rank disorder, so the strife increased; 
And Lars perceived the devil of his guilt 
Had made a darkness, where he amhushed lay 
And waited for his time. Against him rose 
The better knowledge, breeding downy wings 
Of prayer, yet shaken by mistrust and hate 
At touch of Abner's malice. Thus the hour, 
The inevitable, came. 

A Sabbath morn 
Of early spring lay lovely on the land. 
Upon the bridge that to the barn's broad floor 
Led from the field, stood Lars : his eyes were fixed 
Upon his knife, and, as he turned the blade 
This way and that, and with it turned his thought, 
While musing if 't were best to cover up 
This witness, or to master what it told, 
Close to the haft he marked a splash of rust, 
And shuddered as he held it nearer. " Blood, 
And doubtless human! " spake a wiry voice, 
And Abner Cloud bent down his head to look 
A sound of waters filled the ears of Lars 
And all his flesh grew chill : he said no word. 
I have thy history, now," thought Abner Cloud, 
And in the pallid silence read but fear ; 
So thus aloud : " Thou art a man of crime 
The proper offspring of the godless tribes 
Who drank from skulls, and gnawed the very bones 
Of them they slew. This is thine instrument. 
And thou art hungering for its bloody use. 
Say, hast thou ever eaten human flesh ? " 

Then all the landscape, house, and trees, and hills, 

Before the eyes of Lars, burned suddenly 

In crimson fire : the roaring of his ears 

Became a thunder, and his throat was brass. 

Yet one wild pang of deadly fear of self 

Shot through his heart, and with a mighty cry 

Of mingled rage, resistance, and appeal, 

He flung his arms towards heaven, and hurled afai 

The fatal knife. This saw not Abner Cloud : • 

But death he saw within those dreadful eyes, 

And turned and fled. Behind him bounded Lars, 

The man cast off, the wild beast only left, 

The primal savage, who is born anew 

In every child. Not long had been the race. 

But Ezra Mendenhall, approaching, saw 

The danger, swiftly thrust himself between, 

And Lars, whose passion-blinded eyes beheld 

An obstacle, that only, struck rfim down. 

Then deadly hands he dashed at Abner's throas. 



324 LARS. 

But they were grasped : he heard the cry of Rath, 
Not what she said : he heard her voice, and stood. 

She knew not what she said : she only saw 

The wide and glaring eyes suffused with blood, 

The stiff-drawn lips that, parting, showed the teeth, 

And on the temples every standing vein 

That throbbed, dumb voices of destroying wrath. 

The soul that rilled her told her what to do : 

She dropped his hands and softly laid her own 

Upon his brow, then looked the devil down 

Within his eyes, till Lars was there again. 

Erelong he trembled, while, o'er all his frame 

A sweat of struggle and of agony 

Brake forth, and from his throat a husky sob. 

He tried to speak, but the dry tongue refused ; 

He could but groan, and staggered toward the housa, 

As walks a man who neither hears nor sees.. 

With bloodless lips of fear gasped Abner Cloud : 

"A murderer ! " as Ezra Mendenhall 
Came, stunned, and with a wound across his brow. 

" Oh, never ! " Ruth exclaimed; but she was pale. 
She bound her father's head ; she gave him drink ; 
She steadied him with arms of gentle strength, 
Then spake to Abner : " Now, I pray thee, go ! " 
No more : but such was her authority 
Of speech and glance, the spirit and the power, 
That he obeyed, and turned, and left the place. 

Then Ezra's strength came back ; and " Ruth,'" he said 
" I see thou hast a purpose : let me know ! " 
"I only feel," she answered, " that a soul 
Is here in peril, but the way to help 
Is not made plain : the knowledge will be given." 
" I have no fear for thee, my daughter : do 
What seemeth good, and strongly brought upon 
Thy mind by plain direction of the Lord ! 
There is a power of evil in the man 
That might be purged, if once he saw the light." 

She left him, seated in the sunny porch : 
Within the house and orchard all was still, 
Nor found she Lars, at first. But she was driven 
By that vague purpose which was void of for,m, 
And climbed, at last, to where his chamber lay, 
Beneath the rafters. On the topmost step 
He sat, his forehead bent upon his knees, 
A bundle at his side, as when he came. 
He raised his head : Ruth saw his eyes were dull. 
His features cold and haggard, and his voice, 
When thus he spake to her, was hoarse and strange [ 
u Thou need'st not tell me : I already know. 
I hope thou thinkest it is hard to me. 
I am a man of violence and blood, 
Not meet for thy pure company ; and now 
W.hen unto peaceful ways my heart inclined, 
And thou hadst shown the loveliness of good, 



LARS. B25 

My guilt, not yet atoned, brings other guilt 
To drive me forth : and this disgrace is worst." 

Ruth stood below him where he sat : she laid 

One hand upon the hand upon his knee, 

And spake : " I judge thee not; I cannot know 

What grievous loss or strong temptation wrought 

But if, indeed, to good and peaceful ways 

Thy heart inclines, canst thou not wrestle with 

The Adversary 1 This knowledge of thy guilt 

Is half-repentance : whole would make thee sound." 

* And then — and then " — his natural voice returned ; 

* Then — pardon ? " " Pardon, now, from me and him, 
My father, — for I know his perfect heart, — 

Thou hast ; but couldst thou turn thy dreadful strength 
That so it lift, and change, and chasten thee ? " 

* If I but could I" — he cried, and bowed again 

His forehead. " Wait ! " she whispered, left him there, 
And sought her father. 

Now, when Ezra heard 
All this repeated, for a space he sat 
In earnest meditation. " Bid him come ! " 
He said, at last, and Ruth brought Lars to him. 
Upon the doubting and the suffering face 
The old man gazed ; then " Put thy bundle by ! " 
Came from his lips ; "thou shalt not leave, to-day. 
Thy hands have done me hurt ; if thou art just, 
One service do thyself, in following me. 
Come with us to the meeting : there the Lord 
Down through the silence of fraternal souls 
May reach His hand. We cannot guess His ways ; 
Only so much the inward Voice declares." 

But little else was said : upon them lay 

The shadow of an unknown past, the weight 

Of present trouble, the uncertainty 

Of what should come ; yet o'er the soul of Ruth 

Hung something happier than she dared to feel, 

And Lars, in silence, with submissive feet 

Followed, as one who in a land of mist 

Feels one side warmer, where the sun must be. 

Then, parted ere they reached the separate doors, 

Lars went with Ezra. Abner Cloud, within, 

Beheld them enter, and he marvelled much 

Such things could be. Straightway the highest seat 

Took Ezra, where the low partition-boards 

Sundered the men and women. There alone 

Sat they whom most the Spirit visited, 

And spake through them, and gave authority. 

Then silence fell ; how long, Lars could not know, 
Nor Ruth, for each was in a trance of soul, 
Till Ezra rose. His words, at first, were few 
And broken, and they trembled on his lips ; 
But soon the power and full conviction came, 
And then, as with Ezekiel's trumpet-voice 
He spake : " Lo ! many vessels hath the Lord 
Oet by the fount of Evil in our hearts. 



326 LARS. 



Here envy and false-witness catch the green, 
There pride the purple, lust the ruddy stream: 
But into anger runs the natural blood, 
And flows the faster as 't is tapped the more. 
Here lies the source : the conquest here begins, 
Then meekness comes, good-will, and purity. 
Let whoso weigh, when his offence is sore, 
The Lord's offences, and his patience mete, 
Though myriads less in measure, by the Lord's ! 
This yoke is easy, if in love ye bear. 
For none, the lowest, rather hates than loves ; 
But Love is shy, and Hate delights to show 
A brazen forehead ; 't is the noblest sign 
Of courage, and the rarest, to reveal 
The tender evidence of brotherhood. 
With one this sin is born, with other, that ; 
Who shall compare them ? — either sin is dark, 
But one redeeming Light is over both. 
The Evil that assails resist not ye 
With equal evil ! — else ye change to man 
The Lord within, whom ye should glorify- 
By words that prove Him, deeds that bless like Him 
What spake the patient and the holy Christ 1 
Unto thy brother first be reconciled, 
Then bring thy gift ! and further : Bless ye them 
That curse you, and do good to them that hate 
And persecute, that so the children ye may be 
Of Him, the Father. Yea, His perfect love 
Renewed in us, and of our struggles born, 
Gives, even on earth, His pure, abiding peace. 
Behold, these words I speak are nothing new, 
But they are burned with fire upon my mind 
To help — the Lord permit that they may save ! " 

Therewith he laid his hat aside, and all 

Beheld the purple welt across his brow, 

And marvelled. Thus he prayed : " Our God and Lore 

And Father, unto whom our secret sins 

Lie bare and scarlet, turn aside from them 

In holy pity, search the tangled heart 

And breathe Thy life upon its seeds of good ! 

Thou leavest no one wholly dark : Thou giv'st 

The hope and yearning where the will is weak, 

And unto all the blessed strength of love. 

So give to him, and even withhold from me 

Thy gifts designed, that he receive the more: 

Give love that pardons, prayer that purifies, 

And saintly courage that can suffer wrong, 

For these beget Thy peace, and keep Thee near ! " 

He ceased : all hearts were stirred ; and suddenlj 
Amid the younger members Lars arose, 
Unconscious of the tears upon his face, 
And scarcely audible : " Oh, brethren here, 
He prayed for my sake, for my sake pray ye ! 
I am a sinful man : I do repent. 
I see the truth, but in my heart the lamp 
I* barely lighted, any wind may quench. 



LARS. 327 

Bear with me still, be helpful, that I live ! " 
Then all not so much wondered but they felt 
The man's most earnest need ; and many a voice 
Responsive murmured : " Yea, I will ! " and some, 
Whose brows were tombstones over passions slain, 
When meeting broke came up and took his hand. 

The three walked home in silence, but to Lara 

The mist had lifted, and around him fell 

A bath of light ; and dimly spread before 

His feet the sweetness of a purer world. 

When Ezra, that diviner virtue spent 

Which held him up, grew faint upon the road, 

The arm of Lars became a strength to him ; 

Yet all he said, before the evening fell, 

Was : " Gird thy loins, my friend, the way is long 

And wearisome : haste not, but never rest ! " 

: ' I will not close mine eyes," said Lars to Ruth, 
And laid aside the book, No Cross, No Crown, 
She gave him as a comfort and a help ; 

* Till thou hast heard the tale I have to tell. 
Thou speakest truth, the knowledge of my sin 
Is half-repentance, yet the knowledge burns 
Like fire in ashes till it be confessed. 
Revoke thy pardon, if it must be so, 

When all is told : yea, speak to me no more, 
But I must speak ! " So he began, and spared 
No circumstance of love, and hate, and crime, 
The songs and dances which the Friends forbid, 
The bloody customs and the cries profane, 
Till all lay bare and horrible. And Ruth 
Grew pale and flushed by turns, and often wept, 
And, when he ceased, was silent. "Now, farewell ! 
He would have said, when she looked up and spake. 

* Thy words have shaken me : we read such tales, 
Nor comprehend, so distant and obscure : 
Thou makest manifest the living truth. 

Save thee, I never knew a man of blood : 
Thou shouldst be wicked, and my heart declares 
Thy gentleness : ah, feeling all thy sin, 
Can I condemn thee, nor myself condemn ? 
Thy burden, thus, is laid upon me. Pray 
For power and patience, pray for victory ! 
Then falls the burden, and my soul is glad." 

Lars saw what he had done. His limbs unstrung 

Gave way, and softly on his knees he sank, 

And all the passion of his nature bore 

His yearning upward, till in faith it died. 

He rose, at last ; his face was calm and strong : 

Ruth smiled, and then they parted for the night. 

Yet Ezra's words were true : the way was long 
And wearisome. The better will was there, 
But not the trust in self ; for, still beside 
Those pleasant regions opening on his soul, 
Beat the unyielding: blood, as beats afar 



328 LARS. 

The vein of lightning in a summer cloud. 

And, as in each severe community 

Of interests circumscribed, where all is known 

And roughly handled till opinions join, 

So, here were those who kindly turned to Lars, 

And those who doubted, or declared him false. 

In this probation, Ruth became his stay : 

She knew and turned not, knew and yet believed 

As did no other, — hoping more than he. 

Meanwhile the summer and the harvest came. 

One afternoon, within the orchard, Ruth 

Gathered the first sweet apples of the year, 

That give such pleasure by their painted cheeks 

And healthy odor. Little breezes shook 

The interwoven flecks of sun and shade, 

O'er all the tufted carpet of the grass ; 

The birds sang near her, and beyond the hedge, 

Where stretched the oat-field broad along the hill, 

Were harvest voices, broken wafts of sound, 

That brought no words. Then something made her start 

She gazed and waited : o'er the thorny wall 

Lars leaped, or seemed to fly, and ran to her, 

His features troubled and his hands outstretched. 

* O Ruth ! " he cried ; " I pray thee, take my hands ! 
This power I have, at last : I can refrain 
Till help be sought, the help that dwells in thee." 
She took his hands, and soon, in kissing palms, 
His violent pulses learned the beat of hers. 
Sweet warmth o'erspread his frame ; he saw her face, 
And how the cbeeks flushed and the eyelids fell 
Beneath his gaze, and all at once the truth 
Beat fast and eager in the palms of both. 

u Take not away ; " he cried : " now, nevermore, 
Thy hands ! Ruth, my saving angel, give 
Thyself to me, and let our lives be one ! 
I cannot spare thee : heart and soul alike 
Have need of thee, and seem to cry aloud : 

' Lo ! faith and love and holiness are one ! ' " 
But who shall paint the beauty of her eyes 
When they unveiled, and softly clung to his, 
The while she spake : " I think I loved thee first 
When first I saw thee, and I give my life, 
In perfect trust and faith, to these thy hands." 

" The fight is fought," said Lars ; " so blest by thee, 
The strength of darkness and temptation dies. 
If now the light must reach me through thy soul, 
It is not clouded : clearer were too keen, 
Too awful in its purity, for man." 

So into joy revolved the doubtful year, 
And, ere it closed, the gentle fold of Friends 
Sheltered another member, even Lars. 
The evidence of faith, in words and ways, 
Could none reject, and thus opinions joined, 
And that grew natural which was marvel first. 
Then followed soon, since Ezra willed it so, 
Seeing that twofold duty guided Ruth, 
The second marvel, bitterness to one 



LARS. 329 

Who blamed his haste, nor felt how free is fa» >, 

Whose sweeter name is love, of will or plan. 

And all the country-side assembled there, 

One winter Sabbath, when in snow and sky 

The colors of transfiguration shone, 

Within the meeting-house. There Ruth and Lara 

Together sat upon the women's side, 

And when the peace was perfect, they arose. 

He took her by the hand, and spake these words, 

As ordered : H In the presence of the Lord 

And this assembly, by the hand I take 

Ruth Mendenhall, and promise unto her, 

Divine assistance blessing me, to be 

A loving and faithful husband, even 

Till death shall separate us." Then spake Ruth 

The same sweet words ; and so the twain were one 



BOOK III. 

Love's history, as Life's, is ended not 

By marriage : though the ignorant Paradise 

May then be lost, the world of knowledge waits, 

With ample opportunities, to mould 

Young Eve and Adam into wife and man. 

Some grace of sentiment expires, yet here 

The nobler poetry of life begins : 

The squire is knight, the novice takes the vow, 

Old service falls, new powers and duties join, 

And that high Beauty, which is crown of all, 

No more a lightsome maid, with tresses free 

And mantle floating from the bosom bare, 

Confronts us now like holy Barbara, 

As Palma drew, or she, Our Lady, born 

On Melos, type of perfect growth and pure. 

So Lars and Ruth beside each other learned 
w hat neither, left unwedded, could have won : 
tie how reliant and how fond the heart 
Whose love seemed almost pity, she how firm 
And masterful the nature, which appealed 
There for support where hers had felt no strain ; 
And both, how solemn, sweet, and wonderful 
The life of man. Their life, indeed, was still, 
Too still for aught save blessing, for a time. 
All things were ordered : plenty in the house 
And fruitfulness of field and meadow made 
Light labor, and the people came and went, 
According to their old and friendly ways. 
Within the meeting-house upon the hill 
Now Ezra oftener spake, and sometimes Lars, 
Fain to obey tne spirit which impelled ; 
And what of customed phrase they missed, or tone, 
Unlike their measured chant, did he supply 
With words that bore a message to the heart. 

All this might seem sufficient ; yet to Ruth 
Was still unrest, where, onto shallow eyes 



380 LARS. 



Dwelt peace; she felt the uneasy soul of Lars, 

And waited, till his own good time should come. 

Yea, verily, he was happy : could she dOubt 

The signs in him that spake the same in her ? 

Yea, he was happy : every day proclaimed 

The freshness of a blessing rebestowed, 

The conscious gift, unworn by time or use, 

And this was sweet to see ; yet he betrayed 

That wavering will, the opposite of faith, 

Which comes of duty known and not performed. 

It seemed his lines of life were cast in peace, 

In green Hockessin, where Lars Thorstensen, 

A sound that echoed of Norwegian shores, 

Became Friend Thurston : all things there conspired 

To blot the Past, but in his soul it lived. 

Then, as his thoughts went back, his tongue revealed 

He spake of winding fiord and windy fell, 

Of Ulvik's cottages and Graven's lake, 

And all the moving features of a life 

So strange to Ruth ; till she made bold to break, 

Through playful chiding, what was grave surmise : 

I fear me, Lais, that thou art sick for home. 

Thy love is with me and thy memory far : 

Thou seest with half thy sight ; and in thy dreams 

I hear thee murmur in thine other tongue, 

So soft and strange, so good, I cannot doubt, 

If I but knew it ; but thy dreams are safe." 

I Nay, wife," he said ; " misunderstand them not ! 
For dreams hold up before the soul, released 
From worldly business, pictures of itself, 

And in confused and mystic parables 

Foreshadow what it seeks. I do confess 

I love Old Norway's bleak, tremendous hills, 

Where winter sits, and sees the summer burn 

In valleys deeper than yon cloud is high : 

I love the ocean-arms that gleam and foam 

So far within the bosom of the land : 

It is not that. I do confess to thee 

I love the frank, brave habit of the folk, 

The hearts unspoiled, though fed from ruder time* 

And filled with angry blood : I love the tales 

That taught, the ancient songs that cradled me, 

The tongue my mother spake, unto the Lord 

As sweet as thine upon the lips of prayer : 

It is not that." 

Then he perused her face 
Full earnestly, and drew a deeper breath. 
' My wife, my Ruth," his words came, low yet firm ; 
' Thou knowest of one who brake a precious box 
Of ointment, and refreshed the weary feet 
Of Him who pardoned her. But, had He given 
Not pardon only, had He stretched His arm 
And plucked, as from the vine of Paradise, 
All blessing and all bounty and all good, 
What then were she that idly took and used ? " 

I I read thy meaning," answered Ruth ; " speak on f * 



LARS. 331 

* Am I net he that idly uses ? Are there not 
Here many reapers, there a wasting field 1 
In them the fierce inheritance of blood 

I overcame, is mighty still to slay ; 

For ancient custom is a ring of steel 

They know not how to snap. By day and night 

A powerful spirit calls me : ' Go to them ! ' 

What should mine answer to the spirit be 1 " 

If there were aught of struggle in her heart, 
She hid the signs. A little pale her cheek, 
But with untrembling eyelids she upraised 
Her face to his, and took him by the hands : 
H Thy Lord is mine : what should I say to thee, 
Except what she, whose name I bear, ere yet 
She went to glean in Bethlehem's harvest-field, 
Said to Naomi : ' Nay, entreat me not 
To leave thee, or return from following thee ? ' 
Should not thy people, then, be mine, as mine 
Are made thine own ? I will not fail : He calls 
On both of us who gives thee this command." 

So Ruth, erelong, detached her coining life 
From all its past, until each well-known thing 
No more was sure or needful, to her mind. 
Her neighbors, even, seemed to come and go 
Like half-existences ; her days, as well, 
Were clad with dream ; she understood the words, 
" I but sojourn among you for a time," 
And, from the duties which were habits, turned 
To brood o'er those unknown, awaiting her. 

But Ezra, when he heard their purpose, spake : 

* Because this thing is very hard to me, 

I dare not preach against it; but I doubt, 

Being acquainted with the heart of man. 

'T is one thing, Lars, to build thy virtue here, 

Where others urge the better will: but there, 

Alone, persuaded, ridiculed, assailed, 

Couldst thou resist, yet love them ? Nay, I know 

Thy power and conscience : Try them not too soon ! 

Is all I ask. See, I am full of years, 

And thou, my daughter, thou, indeed a son, 

Stay me on cither side : wait but awhile 

And ye are free, yea, seasoned as twin beams 

Of soundest oak, for lintels of His door." 

They patiently obeyed. The years went by, 

Until five winters blanched to perfect snow 

The old man's hair. Then, when the gusts of March 

Shook into life the torpid souls of trees, 

His body craved its rest. He summoned Lars, 

And meekly said : " I pray thee, pardon mc 

That I have lived so long : I meant it not. 

Now I am certain that the end is near; 

And, noting as I must, the deep concern 

On both your minds, I fain would aid that work. 

The which, I see, ye mean to undertake." 



332 LARS. 

Then counsel wLse he gave : it seemed his mind, 

Those five long years, had pondered all things well, 

Computed every chance and sought the hest, 

Foresaw and weighed, foreboded and prepared, 

Until the call was made his legacy. 

At last he said : " My sight is verily clear, 

And I behold your duty as yourselves ; " 

Then spake farewell with pleasant voice, and died 

When summer came, upon an English ship 
Sailed Lars and Ruth between the rich green shores 
That widened, sinking, till the land was drowned, 
And they were blown on rolling fields of blue. 
Blown backward more than on ; and evil eyes 
Of sailors on their sober Quaker garb 
Began to turn. " Our Jonah ! " was the cry, 
W hen Lars was seen upon the quarter-deck, 
And one, a ruffian from the Dorset moors, 
Became so impudent and foul of tongue 
That Ruth was frightened, would have fled below, 
But Lars prevented her. Three strides he made, 
Then by the waistband and the neck he seized 
That brutish boor, and o'er the bulwarks held, 
Above the brine, like death for very fear. 

u Now, promise me to keep a decent tongue ! " 
Cried Lars ; and he : "I promise anything, 
But let me not be lost ! " Thenceforth respect 
Those sailors showed to strength, though clad in peac« 

" Now see I wherefore thou wert made so strong," 
Ruth said to him, and inwardly rejoiced ; 
And soon the mists and baffling breezes fled 
Before a wind that down from Labrador 
Blew like a will unwearied, night and day, 
Across the desert of the middle sea. 
Out of the waters rose the Scilly Isles, 
Afar and low, and then the Cornish hills, 
And, floating up by many a valley-mouth 
Of Devon streams, they came to Bristol town. 

Awhile among their brethren they abode, 

For thus had Ezra ordered. There were some 

Concerned in trade, whose vessels to and fro 

From Hull across the German Ocean sailed, 

And touched Norwegian ports ; and Lars in those, 

The old man said, must find his nearest stay. 

But soon it chanced that with a vessel came 

A man of Arendal, in Norway land, 

Known to the Friends as fair in word and deed, 

And well-inclined ; and Gustaf Hansen named. 

Norse tongue makes easy friendship : Lars and he 

Became as brothers in a little while, 

And, when his worldly charge was ordered, they 

Together all embarked for Arendal. 

Calm autumn skies were o'er them, and the sea 

Swelled in un wrinkled glass : they scarcely knew 

How sped the voyage, until Lindesnaes, 

At first a cloud, stood fast, and spread away 

To flanking capes, with gaps of blue between 



LARS. 333 

Then rose, and showed, above the precipice, 
The firs of Norway climbing thick and high 
To wilder crests that made the inland gloom. 
In front, the sprinkled skerries pierced the wave ; 
Between them, slowly glided in and out 
The tawny sails, while houses low and red 
Hailed their return, or sent them fearless forth. 
1 This is thy Norway, Lars ; it looks like thee," 
Said Ruth : " it has a forehead firm and bold ; 
It sets its foot below the reach of storms, 
Yet hides, methinks, in each retiring vale, 
Delight in toil, contentment, love, and peace, — 
My land, my husband ! let me love it, too ! " 
So on their softened hearts the sun went down 
And rose once more ; then Gustaf Hansen came 
Beside them, pilot of familiar shores, 
And said : " To starboard, yonder, lies the isle 
As I described it ; here, upon our lee 
Is mainland all, and there the Nid comes down, 
The timber-shouldering Nid, from endless woods 
And wilder valleys where scant grain is grown. 
Now bend your glances as my finger points, — 
Lo ! there it is, the spire of Arendal ! 
Our little town, as homely, kind, and dear, 
As some old dame, round whom her children's babes 
Cling to be petted, comforted, and spoiled. 
And here, my friends, shall ye with me abide 
And with my Thora, till the winter melts, 
Which there, beyond yon wall of slaty cloud, 
Possesses fell and upland even now. 
Too strange is Ruth to dare those snowy wastes, 
Nor is there need : good Thora's heart will turn 
To her, I know, as mine hath turned to Lars ; 
And Arendal is warmly-harbored, snug, 
And not unfriendly in the time of storms." 

They could not say him nay. The anchor dropped 

Belbre the town, and Thora, from the land, 

Tall, broad of breast, with ever-rosy cheeks 

O'er which the breezes tossed her locks of gray, 

Stretched arms of welcome ; and the ancient house, 

With massive beams and ample chimney-place, 

As in Hockessin, made immediate home. 

To Ruth, how sweetly the geraniums peeped 

Witli scarlet eyes across the window-sill ! 

How orderly the snowy curtains shone ! 

Familiar, too, the plainness and the use 

In all things ; presses of the dusky oak, ^ 

Fair linen, store of healing herbs that smelled 

Of charity, and signs of forethought wise 

That justified the plenty of the house. 

It was as Gustaf said : good Thora loved 

The foreign woman, taught and counselled her, 

Taking to heart their purpose, so that she 

Unconsciously received the truth of Friends. 

And Gustaf also, through the soul of Lars, 

To him laid bare, and all that blessing clear 

Obedience brings when speaks the inward voice. 



334 LARS. 



Believed erelong ; then others came to hear, 
Till there, in Arendal, a brotherhood 
Of earnest seekers for the light grew up, 
Before the hasty spring of northern lands 
Sowed buttercups along the banks of Nid. 

But when they burst, those precious common fiowan 
That not a meadow of the world can spare, 
Said Lars, one Sabbath, to the little flock : 
1 Here we have tarried long, and it is well ; 
But now we go, and it is also well. 
This much is blessing added unto those 
That went before ; hence louder rings the call 
Which brought me hither, and I must obey. 
My path is clear, my duty strange and stern, 
The end thereof uncertain ; it may be, 
My brethren, I shall never see ye more. 
Your love upholds me, and your faith confirms 
My purpose : bless me now.^and bid farewell ! " 
Then Gustaf wept, and said : " Our brother, go ! 
Yet thou art with us, and we walk with thee 
In this or yonder world, as bids the Lord." 

Their needful preparations soon were made : 

Two strong dun horses of the mountain breed, 

With hoofs like claws, that clung where'er they touched, 

Unholstered saddles, leathern wallets rilled 

With scrip for houseless ways, close-woven cloaks 

To comfort them upon the cloudy fells, 

And precious books, by Penn and Barclay writ 

And Woolman, — these made up their little store. 

The few and faithful went with them a space 

Along the banks of iSid ; there first besought 

All power and light, and furtherance for the task 

Awaiting Lars : they knew not what it was, 

But what it was, they knew, was good : then all 

Gave hands and said farewell, and Lars and Ruth 

Rode boldly onward, facing the dark land. 

Across the lonely hills of Telle mark, 

That smiled in sunshine, went their earnest way, 

And by the sparkling waters of the Tind ; 

Then, leaving on the left that chasm of dread 

Where, under Gousta's base, the Riukan falls 

In winnowing blossoms, tendrilled vines of foam, 

And bursting rockets of the starry spray, 

They rode through forests into Hemsedal. 

The people marvelled at their strange attire, 

But all were kind ; and Ruth, to whom their speech 

Was now familiar, found such ordered toil, 

Such easy gladness, temperate desire, 

That many doubts were laid : the spirit slept, 

She thought, and waited but a heartsome call. 

Then ever higher stood the stormy fells 

Against uncertain skies, as they advanced ; 

And ever grander plunged the roaring snow 

Of mighty waterfalls from cliff to vale : 

The firs were mantled in a blacker shade, 



LARS. 885 



The rocks were rusted as with ancient blood, 
And winds that shouted or in wailing died 
Harried the upper fields, in endless wrath 
At finding there no man. 

The soul of Lars 
Expanded with a solemn joy ; but Ruth, 
Awed by the gloom and wildness of the land, 
Rode close and often touched her husband's arm ; 
And when within its hollow dell they saw 
The church of Borgund like a dragon sit, 
Its roof all horns, its pitchy shingles laid 
Like serpent scales, its door a dusky throat, 
She whispered : " This the ancients must have left 
From their abolished worship : is it so ? 
This is no temple of the living Lord, 
That makes me fear it like an evil thing ! " 
M Consider not its outward form," said Lars, 
u Or mine may vex thee, for my sin outgrown. 
I would the dragon in the people's blood 
As harmless were 1" So downward, side by side, 
From ridges of the windy Fille Fell 
Lnto the borders of the tamer brine, 
The sea-arm bathing Frithiofs home, they rode ; 
Then two days floated past those granite walls 
That mock the boatman with a softer song, 
And took the land again, where shadow broods, 
And frequent thunder of the tumbling rocks 
Is heard the summer through, in Nasrodal. 
To Ruth the gorge seemed awful, and the path 
That from its bowels toiled to meet the sun, 
Was hard as any made for Christian's feet, 
In Bunyan's dream ; but Lars with lighter step 
The giddy zigzag scaled, for now, beyond, 
Xot distant, lay the Vossevangen vale, 
And all the cheerful neighborhood of home. 

At last, one quiet afternoon, they crossed 
The fell from Graven, and below them >aw 
The roofs of Ulvik and the orchard-trees 
Shining in richer colors, and the fiord, 
A dim blue gloom between Hardanger heights, — 
The strife and peace, the plenty and the need ; 
And both were silent for a little space. 
Then Ruth : " I had not thought thy home so fair, 
Nor yet so stern and overhung with dread, 
It seems to draw me as a danger draws, 
Yet gives me courage . is it well with thee ? " 
: ' That which I would, I know," responded Lars, 
"Not that which may be : ask no more.. I pray ! " 
Then downward, weary, strangely moved, yet glad, 
They went, a wonder to the Ulvik folk, 
Till some detected, 'neath his shadowy brim, 
The eyes of Lars ; and he was scarcely housed 
With his astonished kindred, ere the news 
Spread from the fountain, ran along the shore. 
For all believed him dead : in truth, the dead 
Could not have risen in stranger guise than he, 
Who spake as one they knew and did not know, 



B86 LARS. 



Who seemed another, yet must be the same. 

His folk were kind : they owned the right of blood, 

Nor would disgrace it, though a half-disgrace 

Lars seemed to bring ; but in her strauge, sweet self 

Ruth brought a pleasure which erelong was love. 

Her gentle voice, her patient, winniug ways, 

Pure thought and ignorance of evil things 

That on her wedlock left a virgin bloom, 

Set her above them, yet her nature dwelt 

In lowliness : sister and saint she seemed. 

Soon Thorsten, brother of the slaughtered Per, 

Alike a stalwart fisher of the fiord, 

Heard who had come, and published unto all 

The debt of blood he meant to claim of Lars. 

The coward, only, comes as man of peace, 

To shirk such payment ! " were his bitter words. 

And they were carried unto Lars : but he 

Spake firmly : " Well I knew what he would claim : 

The coward, knowing, comes not." Nothing more; 

Nor could they guess the purpose of his mind. 

In little Ulvik all the people learned 

What words had passed, and there were friends of both 

But Lars kept silent, walked the ways unarmed, 

And preached the pardon of an utmost wrong. 

Now Thorsten saw in this but some device 

To try his own forbearance : his revenge 

Grew hungry for an answering enmity, 

And weary of its shame ; and so, at last, 

He sent this message : " If Lars Thorstensen 

Deny not blood he spilled, and guilt thereof, 

Then let him meet me by the Graven lake," — 

On such a day. 

When came the message, Lars 
Spake thus to all his kindred : " I will go : 
I do deny not my blood-guiltiness. 
This thing hath rested on my soul for years, 
And must be met." Then unto Ruth he turned : 
I go alone : abide thou with our kin." 
But she arose and answered : " Nay, I go ! 
Forbid me not, or I must disobey, 
Which were a cross. I give thee to the Lord, 
His helpless instrument, to break or save ; 
Think not my weakness shall confuse thy will ! " 
Lars laid his hand upon her head, and all 
Were strangely melted, though he spake no more, 
Nor then, nor on the way to Graven lake. 

Lo ! there were many gathered, kin of both, 
Or friends, or folk acquainted with the tale, 
And curious for its end. The summer sky 
Was beautiful above them, and the trees 
Stood happy, stretching forth forgiving arms ; 
Yet sultry thunder in the hearts of men 
Brooded, the menace of a rain of blood. 
Lars paused not when he came. He saw the face 
Of Thorsten, ruddy, golden-haired like Per's, 
Amid the throng, and straightway went to him 



LARS. 337 

And spake : " I come, as thou invitest me. 
My brother, I have shed thy brother's blood ; 
What wouldst thou I should do thee, to atone ? " 

" Give yours ! " cried Thorsten, stepping back a pace. 

" That murderous law we took from heathen sires," 
Said Lars, " is guilt upon a Christian land, 
I do abjure it. Wilt thou have my blood, 
Nor less, I dare not lift a hand for thine." 

" You came not, then, to fight, though branded here 

A coward ? " 

" Nay, nor ever/' answered Lara ; 
" But, were I coward, could I calmly bear 

Thy words ? " Then Thorkil, friend of Thorsten, cried 
'' These people, in their garments, I have heard, 

Put on their peace ; or else some magic dwells 

In shape of hat or color of the coat, 

To make them harmless as a browsing hare. 

That Lars we knew had danger in his eyes ; 

But this one, — why, uncover, let us see ! " 

Therewith struck off the hat. And others there 

Pell upon Lars, and tore away his coat, 

Nor ceased the outrage until they had made 

His body bare to where the leathern belt 

Is clasped between the breast-bone and the hip. 

Around his waist they buckled then a belt, 

And brought a knife, and thrust it in his hand. 

The open ringers would not hold : the knife 

Fell from them, struck, and quivered in the sod. 

Thorsten, apart, had also bared his breast, 

And waited, beautiful in rosy life. 

Then Thorkil and another drew the twain 

Together, hooked the belts of each, and strove 

Once more to arm the passive hand of Lars : 

In vain : his open fingers would not hold 

The knife, which fell and quivered in the sod. 

He looked in Thorsten's eyes ; great sorrow fell 

Upon him, and a tender human love. 
" I did not this," he said ; "nor will resist. 

If thou art minded so, then strike me dead : 

But thou art sacred, for the blood I spilled 

Is in thy veins, my brother : yea, all blood 

Of all men sacred is in thee." His arms 

Hung at his side : he did not shrink or sway : 

His flesh touched Thorsten's where the belts were joined 

And felt its warmth. Then twice did Thorsten lift 

His armed hand, and twice he let it sink : 

An anguish came upon his face : he groaned, 

And all that heard him marvelled at the words ; 
" Have pity on me ; turn away thine oyes : 

I cannot slay thee while they look on me ! " 
" If I could end this bloody custom so, 

In all the land, nor plant a late remorse 

For what is here thy justice,,' answered Lars, 
" I could not sav thee nay. Yet, if the deed 
22 



838 LARS. 

Be good, thou shoulclst have courage for the deed ! " 
Once more looked Thorsten in those loving eyes, 
And shrank, and shuddered, and grew deadly pale, 
Till, with a gasp for breath, as one who drowns 
Draws, when he dips again above the wave, 
He loosed the clutching belts, and sat him down 
And hid his face : they heard him only say : 
'* 'T were well that I should die, for very shame ! " 
Lars heard, and spake to all : " The shame is mine, 
Whose coward heart betrayed me unto guilt. 
I slew my brother Per, nor sought his blood : 
Thou, Thorsten, wilt not mine; I read thy heart. 
But ye, who trample on the soul of man 
In still demanding he shall ne'er outgrow 
The savage in his veins, through faith in Good, 
Who Thorsten rule, even as ye ruled myself, — 
I call ye to repent ! That God we left, 
White Balder, were more merciful than this : 
If one, henceforward, cast on- Thorsten shame, 
The Lord shall smite him when the judgment comes f * 

Never before, such words in such a place 

Were preached by such apostle. Bared, as though 

For runes of death, while red Berserker rage 

Kindled in some, in others smouldered out, 

He raised his hand and pointed to the sky : 

Far off, behind the silent fells, there rolled 

A sudden thunder. Ruth, who all the while 

Moved not nor spake, stood forth, and o'er her face 

There came the glory of an opening heaven. 

Now that she knew the habit of the folk, 

She spake not ; but she clothed the form of Lars 

In silence, and the women, weeping, helped. 

Then Thorsten rose, and seeing her, he said : 

" Thou art his wife ; they tell me thou art good. 
I am no bloodier than thy husband was 
Before he knew thee : hast thou aught to say ? " 
She took his hand and spake, as one inspired : 

" Thou couldst not make thyself a man of blood ! 
This is thy seed of blessing : let it grow ! 
Gladness of heart, and peace, and honored name 
Shall come to thee : the unrighteous, cruel law 
Is broken by thy hands, no less than his 
Who loves thee, and would sooner die than harm ! " 

u They speak the truth," said Thorsten; "thou art good.. 
And it were surely bitter grief to thee 
If I had slain him. Go ! his blood is safe 
From hands of mine." 

His words the most approved 
The rest, bewildered, knew not what to say. 
In these the stubborn mind and plastic heart 
Agreed not quickly, for the thing was strange, 
An olden tale with unforeboded end : 
They must have time. The crowd soon fell apart, 
Same faces glad, all solemn, and dispersed ; 
Except one woman, who, from time to time, 
Pressed forward, then, as with uncertain will, 
Turned back as often. Troubled was her f&f 



LABS. 

And worn : within the hollows of her eves 
Dwelt an impatient sorrow, and her lips 
Had from themselves the girlish fulness pressed 
Her hair hung negligent, though plenteous still ; 
And beauty that no longer guards itself, 
But listlessly beholds its ruin come, 
Made her an apparition wild and sad, 
A cloud on others' joy. 

Lars, as he left 
That field unsullied, saw the woman stand. 

' Brita ! " he cried ; and all the past returned 
And all the present mixed with it, and made 
His mouth to quiver and his eyes to fill : 

' Unhappy Brita, and I made thee so ! 
Is there forgiveness yet for too much love 
And foolish faith, that brought us double woe ? 
I dare not ask it ; couldst thou give una>ked ? " 
Her face jrrew hard to keep the something back 
Which softened her : "Make Per alive," she said, 
One moment only, that he pardon me, 
And thou art pardoned ! else, I think, canst thou 
Bear silence, as I bear it from the dead. 
Oh, thou hast done me harm ! " But Ruth addreas&d 
These words to her: " I never did thee harm, 
Yet on my soul my husband's guilt to thee 
Is made a shadow : let me be thy friend ! 
Only a woman knows a woman's need." 

Lars understood the gesture and the glance 

Which Ruth then gave, and hastened on the path 

To join his kindred, leaving them alone. 

So Ruth by Brita walked, and spake to her 

In words whose very sound a comfort gave, 

Like some soft wind that o'er an arid land, 

Unfelt at first, fans on with cooling wings 

Till all the herbage freshens, and the soil 

Is moist with dew ; and Brita's arid heart 

Thus opened : " Yea, all this is very well. 

So much thou knowest, being woman, — love 

Of man, and man's of thee, and both declared : 

But say, how canst thou measure misery 

Of love that lost its chances, made the Fast 

One dumbness, and forever reckons o'er 

The words unspoken, which to both were sweet, 

The touch of hands that never binding met, 

The kisses, never given and never took, 

The hopes and raptures that were never shared, — 

Nay, worse than this, for she withheld, who knew 

They might have been, from him who never knew ! ' 

Therewith her passion loosed itself in sobs, 

And on the pitying breast of Ruth she wept 

Her heart to calmness ; then, with less of pain, 

She told the simple storv of her life : 

How, scarce two years oefore, her grandam died, 

Who would have'seen her wedded, and was wroth, 

At times, in childish petulance of age, 

But kinder — 't was a blessing ! — ere she died. 



840 LARS. 

Leaving the cottage highest on the slope, 
Naught else, to Brita ; but her wants were few 
The garden helped her, and the spotted cow, 
Now old, indeed : she span the winter through, 
And there was meal enough, and Thorsten gave 
Sometimes a fish, because she grieved for Per ; 
And, now the need of finery was gone, — 
For men came not a-wooing where consent 
Abode not, — she had made the least suffice. 
Yes, she was lonely : it was better so, 
For she must learn to live in loneliness. 
As much as unto Kuth she had not said 
To any woman, trusting her, it seemed, 
Without a knowledge, more than them she knew. 
•' Yea, trust me, Sister Brita ! " Ruth replied, 
'* And try to love : my heart is drawn to thee." 
Thereafter, many a day, went Ruth alone 
To Brita's cottage, vexing not with words 
That woke her grief, and silent as to Lars, 
Till Brita learned to smile when she appeared, 
And missed her when she came not. Now, meanwhile 
The news of Lars, and Thorsten's foiled revenge 
Beside the lake of Graven, travelled far 
Past Vik and Vossevangen, o'er the fells, 
To all the homesteads of the Bergenstift ; 
And every gentle heart leaped up in joy, 
While those of restless old Berserker blood 
Beat hot with wrath. Who oversets old laws, 
They said, is dangerous ; and who is he 
That dares to preach, and hath not been ordained ? 
This thing concerns the ministers, they whom 
The State sets over us, with twofold power, 
Divine and secular, to teach and rule. 
Then he, the shepherd of the Ulvik flock, 
Not now that good old man, but one whose youth 
More hateful showed his Christless bigotry, 
Made Sabbaths hot with his anathemas 
Of Lars, and stirred a tumult in the land. 
Some turned away, and all grew faint of heart, 
Seeing the foothold yield, and slip ; till Lars, 
Now shunned at home, and drawn by message* 
From Gustaf Hansen and the faithful souls 
In Arendal, said : " It is time to go." 

"Nay, tarry but a little while," spake Ruth. 
u I have my purpose here, as thou hadst thine : 

Grant me but freedom, for the end, I think, 

Is justified." 

Lars answered : " Have thy will ! "" 

She summoned Brita, and the twain went down 
To pace the scanty strand beside the wave, 
Which, after storm, was quiet, though the gloom 
Of high, opposing mountains filled the fiord. 
Ruth spake of parting ; Brita answered not, 
But up and down in silence walked the strand, 
Then suddenly : " No message sendcth Lara ? 
My pardon he implored ; and that, to thee, 



LARS. 841 

I know, were welcome. Hadst thou asked, perchance, 

Perverse in sorrow, I should still withhold ; 

But thou departest, who hast been so kind, 

And I — ah, God ! what else have I to give ? " 
' The Lord requite thee, Brita ! " Ruth exclaimed ; 
*The gift that blesses must be given unasked : 

What now remains is easy. Come with us, 

With Lars and me, and be our home thy home, 

All peace we win, all comfort, thine as ours ! " 

Once more walked Brita up and down the strand, 

Bowing her face upon her shielding hands, 

As if to muse, unwatched ; then stood, and seemed 

About to speak, when, with a shrilling cry 

She sprang, and fell, and grovelled on her knees, 

And thrust her fingers in the wet sea-sand. 

Ruth, all in terror, ran to her, and saw 

How, fron? the bones of some long-wasted fish 

An osprey uropped, or tempest beat to death, 

Caught in the breakers, and the drifted shells, 

And tangles of the rotting kelp, she plucked 

Something that sparkled, pressed it to her lips, 

And cried : " A sign ! a sign ! 't is grandam speaks ! 

Then trembling rose, and flung herself on Ruth, 

And kissed her, saying : " I will follow thee. 

My heart assented, yet I had denied, 

But, ere I spake, the miracle was done ! 

Thy words give back the jewel lost with Per : 

Tell Lars I do forgive him, and will serve 

Thee, Ruth, a willing handmaid, in thy home ! " 

So Brita went with them to Arendal. 

There milder habits, easier government 

Of bench and pulpit for a while left all 

In peace : and not alone within the fold 

Of Friends came Brita, but the Lord inspired. 

She spake with power, as one by suffering taught 

A chastened spirit, and she wrought good works. 

She was a happy matron ere she died, 

And blessing came on all; for, from that day 

Of doubt and anguish by the Graven lake, 

The Lord fulfilled in Ruth one secret prayer, 

And gave her children ; and the witness borne 

By Lars, the voice of his unsprinkled blood, 

Became a warning on Norwegian hills. 

Here, now, they fade. The purpose of their lives 

Was lifted up, by something over life, 

To power and service. Though the name of Law 

Be never heard, the healing of the world 

Is in its nameless saints. Each separate star 

Seems nothing, but a myriad scattered stars 

Break up the Night, and make it beautiful. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



A land of Dreams and Sleep, — a poppied 
land ! 57. 

A second deluge ! Well, — no matter : here, 83. 

A silver javelin which the hills, 51. 

A thousand years! Through storm and fire, 
140. 

Above the palms, the peaks of pearly gray, 200. 

After the eyes that looked, the lips that spake, 
219. 

Again I sit within the mansion, 100. 

Along the east, where late the dark impended, 
24. 

An old and crippled veteran to the War Depart- 
ment came, 138. 

As when the haze of some wan moonlight 
makes, 70. 

At last the dream that clad the field, 182. 

Because no other dream my childhood knew, 

245. 
Born in the purple ! born in the purple ! 69. 
Brother Bards of every region, 63. 

Castles with lofty, 101. 

Child with the butterfly, 199. 

Children are we, 127. 

Come hither, Child ! thou silent, shy, 120. 

Come, my beauty ! come, my desert darling ! 61. 

Complete the altar stands : my task is done, 

249. 
Could I choose the age and fortunate season, 

179. 

Daughter of Egypt, veil thine eyes ! 48. 
Dead is the air, and still ! the leaves of the lo- 
cust and walnut, 151. 
Dear Lillian, all I wished is won ! 130. 
Down in the dell I wandere 1, 100. 
Do you sigh for the power you dream of, 181. 

Farewell awhile, my bonnie darling ! 141. 

For days before, the wild-dove cooed for rain, 

22. 
From the bosom of ocean I seek thee, 128. 
From the Desert I come to thee, 55. 
From the doorway, Manuela, in the sunny 

April morn, 107. 
From you and home I sleep afar, 28. 

Give back the soul of youth once more ! 94. 
" Give us a song ! " the soldiers cried, 8S. 
God, to whom we look up blindly, 15. 
Gusty and raw was the morning, 108. 

Hail to thee, monarch of African mountains. 58. 
Hassan Ben Khaled, singing in the streets, 38. 



Have I passed through Death's unconscious 

birth, 24. 
Have you seen the Garden of Irem ? 53. 
He knew the mask of principle to wear, 214. 
He was a boy when first we met, 25. 
Heavy, and hot, and gray, 13. 
Here slacken rein ; here let the dusty mules. 

111. 
Here was the gate. The broken paling, 190. 
Homely, forgotten flower, 198. 
How cool and wet the lowlands lie, 95. 
How the hot revel's fever dies, 96. 

I am born from the womb of the cloud, 1S4. 

I am no chieftain, fit to lead, 48. 

I had a vision in that solemn hour, 132. 

I lie in the summer meadows, 99. 

I plucked for thee the wilding rose, 127. 

I read that story of the Sax m knight, 26. 

I ride in a gloomy land, 192. 

I sat on the lonely headland, 11. 

I sat to-day beneath the pine, 206. 

I walk, as in a dream, 142. 

" If I could forget," she said, "forget, and be- 
gin again ! " 167. 

If heat of youth, 't is heat suppressed, 209. 

If I could touch with Petrarch's pen this 
strain, 213. 

If love should come again, I ask my heart, 20. 

If that my hand, like yours, dear George, were 
skilled, 213. 

If thou hadst died at midnight, 16. 

In Allah's name, the Ever Merciful, 44. 

In clay the statue stood complete, 10. 

In Steyermark, — green Steyermark, 129. 

In this free Pantheon of the air and sun, 223. 

Io triumphe ! Lo, thy certain art, 88. 

It :s the brave that first forget, 193. 

It was our wedding-day, 27. 

It was the evening of the second day, 15. 

Italy, loved of the sun, 203. 

I 've drunk Sicilia's crimson wine ! 124. 

I 've passed the grim and threatening warders, 
134. 

King Siegfried sat in his lofty hall, 102. 
Knowst thou the land where citron-flowers un- 
fold ? 102. 

Last night the Tempter came to me, and said, 

12. 
Learn to live, and live to learn, 20(1 
Like one who leaves the trampled street, 20. 
Little one, come to my knee ! 143. 
Look forth, Beloved, from thy mansion high, 

140, 



344 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Long are the shores of green America, 78. 
Love, I follow, follow thee, 21. 

May-time and August, November, and over the 

winter to May-time, 157. 
Moan, ye wild winds ! around the pane, 121. 
My home was seated high and fair, 183. 
Mysterious Flood, — that through the silent 

sands, 60. 

Nay, fold your arms, beloved Friends, 93. 

Next to thee, O fair gazelle, 63. 

Nightly the hoar-frost freezes, 207. 

No longer spread the sail ! 97. 

Not as in youth, with steps outspeeding morn, 3. 

Now saddle El Canelo ! the freshening wind 

of morn, 111. 
Now the days are brief and drear, 98. 
Now the frosty stars are gone, 87. 
Now the night is overpast, 27. 
Now, when the mocking-bird, returned from 

his Florida winter, 147. 

O Daughter of the Sun, 61. 

O fair young land, the youngest, fairest far, 

92. 
O Friend, were you but couched on Tmolus' 

side, 35. 
tongues of the Past, be still ! 12. 
Of the beautiful Garden of Roses, 101. 
Off, fetters of the falser life, 90. 
On curtained eyes, and bosoms warm with rest, 

303. 
Once let the Angel blow ! 209. 
Once more without you ! Sighing, Dear, once 

more, 212. 
One hour be silent, sounds of war ! 193. 
Over the eaves where the sunbeams fall, 199. 

Paler r and yet a thousand times more fair, 30. 

Returned to warm existence, — even as one, 

191. 
Roseate darling, 201. 

Sad Autumn, drop thy weedy crown forlorn, 

212. 
Say, who shall mourn him first, 237. 
Scarce from the void of shadows taken, 205. 
Search high and low, search up and down, 185. 
See, from the tower of the Capitol, looking 

abroad, 202. 
She came, long absent from my side, 25. 
She is a woman : therefore, I a man, 26. 
She, pacing down the vineyard walks, 72. 
Snow-bound for earth, but summer-souled for 

thee, 206. 
Sometimes an hour of Fate's serenest weather, 

146. 
Sometimes, in sleeping dreams of night, 99. 
Strike the tent ! the sun has risen ; not a vapor 

streaks the dawn, 114. 
Storm-wearied Avgo slept upon the water, 72. 
Sun of the stately Day, 230. 

That late, in half-despair, I said, 137. 

The beech is bare, and bare the ash, 17. 

The black-eyed children of the Desert drove, 

75. 
The clarion Wind, that blew so loud at morn, 

122 
The clouds are scudding across the moon, 127. 
The clouds that stoop from yonder sky, 185. 



The Coliseum lifts at night, 91. 

The corn was warm in the ground, the fences 

were mended and made, 163. 
The day had come, the day of many years, 7. 
The deep and lordly Danube, 128. 
The dusky sky fades into blue, 37. 
Tiie evening shadows lengthen on the lawn, 5. 
The fateful hour, when Death stood by, 29. 
The fisherman wades in the surges, 13. 
The frosty fires of Northern starlight, 132. 
The glen was fair as some Arcadian dell, 187. 
The gods are gone, the temples overthrown, 

204. 
The gorgeous blossoms of that magic tree, 62. 
The gray stems rise, the branches braid, 17. 
The lamps were thick ; the air was hot, 96. 
The message of the god I seek, 189. 
The old Hercynian Forest sent, 211. 
The Ornament of Asia and the Crown, 62. 
The Poet came to the Land of the East, 38. 
The Prophet once, sitting in calm debate, 54. 
The rain is sobbing on the wold, 95. 
The, Scorpion's stars crawl down behind the 

sun, 121. 
The sea is a jovial comrade, 94. 
The splendor of the sinking moon, 64. 
The sim, the moon, the mystic planets seven, 

57. 
The valley stream is frozen, 19. 
The violet loves a sunny bank, 91. 
The vulture like, 103. 
The waters of my life were sweet, 11. 
The wild and windy morning is lit with lurid 

fire, 64. 
The woodlands wore a gloomy green, 18. 
The years go by, old Friend ! Each, as it fleets, 

213. 
Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah, — come 

in ! 'T is kind of thee, 161. 
There is naught on either hand, 208. 
There 's a mist on the meadow below ; the her- 
ring-frogs chirp and cry, 166. 
They call thee false as thou art fair, 100. 
This plant, it may be, grew from vigorous seed, 

214. 
Thou art not dead ; thou art not gone to dust, 

98. 
Thou Bavaria's brown-eyed daughter, 130. 
Thou who sendest sun and rain, 31. 
Thou, whom the slave-lords with contemptuous 

feet, 214. 
Though they never divided my meat or wine, 

175. 
Thrice three moons had waxed in heaven, 

thrice three moons had waned away, 59. 
Through days of toil, through nightly fears, 

126. 
Through many years my heart goes back, 302. 
Through the lonely halls of the night, 196. 
'T is not the dropping of the flower, 29. 
To you the homage of this book I bring, 68. 
'T was Friday morn : the train drew near, 137. 

Under the arches of the morning sky, 55. 
Under the full-blown linden and the plane, 186. 
Under the lamp in the tavern yard, 173. 
Unto the Desert and the Desert steed, 65. 
Up yonder on the mountain, 101. 

Victor Emanuel ! of prophetic name, 235. 

Waken, voice of the Land's Devotion ! 195, 
We are not old, we are not cold, 19, 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



345 



We walk amid the currents of actions left un- 
done, 171. 

Well — well ! this is a comfort, now — the air is 

as mild as May, 168. 
What poiut of Time unchronicled and dim, 109. 
When bleak winds through the Northern pines 

were sweeping, 119. 
When days were long, and o'er that farm of 

mine, 213. 
When May, with cowslip-braided locks, 18. 
When over Salamis stands Homer's moon, 210. 
When Peter led the First Crusade, 91. 
When shall I find you, sweetheart, 199. 
When the maple turns to crimson, 19. 
When the rains of November are dark on the 

hills, and the pine-trees incessantly roar, 

126. 
When the stern Genius, to whose hollow tramp, 

131. 
When the uneasy waves of life subside, 96. 
Where should the Poet's home and household 

be? 214. 



Who, harnessed in his mail of Self, demands, 

212. 
Who shall rise and cast away, 179. 
Who shall sunder the fetters, 180. 
Whose voice shall so invade the spheres, 225. 
Why art thou dead ? Upon the hills once more, 

124. 
Will, in his lawless mirth, 198. 
Wine, bring wine ! 131. 
With rushing winds and gloomy skies, 139. 
Within a green and pleasant land, 188. 
Wrapped in his sad-colored cloak, the Day, like 

a Puritan, standeth, 154. 

Yes, it is May ! though not that the young leaf 

pushes its velvet, 148. 
You ask me why I sometimes drop, 94. 
You ask, O Frank ! how Love is born, 49. 
You call me cold : you wonder why, 65. 
You comfort me as one that, knowing Fate, 128. 
You may water your bays, brother-poets, with 

lays, 56. 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



[The titles in small capital letters are those of the principal divisions of the book ; those in 
lower case are of single poems, or the subdivisions of long poems.] 



Accolade, The, 173. 

Ad Amicos, 146. 

American People, To the, 137. 

Amran's Wooing, 49. 

Answer, An, 65. 

Arab to the Palm, The, 63. 

Ariel in the Cloven Pine, 87. 

Artists, To the, 245. 

Assyrian Night-Song, 208. 

At Home, 95. 

Atonement, 16. 

August, 151. 

Aurum Potabile, 63. 

Autumnal Dreams, 19. 

Autumnal Vespers, 122. 

Bacchic Ode, A, 131. 
Baltimore, Through, 137. 
B.itb, The, 90. 
Bavarian Girl, To a, 130. 
Bedouin Song, 55. , 

Before the Bridal, 27. 
Birth of the Prophet, The, 59. 
Bison Track, The, 114. 
Baker, George H., To, 68. 
Burden of the Day, The, 179. 

California, On leaving, 92. 

Camadeva, 57. 

Canelo, El, 111. 

Canopus, 200. 

" Casa Guidi Windows," 191. 

Cedarcroft, To the Mistress of, 5. 

Chant, 193. 

Chapel, The, 20. 

Charmian, 61. 

Christmas Sonnets, 213. 

Churchyard Roses, 18. 

Continents, The, 132. 

Cupido, 201. 

Daughter, To my, 206. 

Day in March, A, 140. 

December, 17. 

Dasert Hymn to the Sun, 55. 

" Down in the Dell I wandered," 100. 

Epicedium, 237. 

Epistle from Mount Tmolus, An, 35. 

Eric and Axel, 175. 

Euphorion, 93. 

Exorcism, 12. 

Father, The, 29. 

Fight of Paso del Mar, The, 108. 

Fountain of Trevi, The, 91. 



Friend's Greeting, A, 206. 
From the North, 212. 
Funeral Thought, A, 131. 

Gabriel, 209. 

Garden of Irem, The, 53. 

Garden of Roses, The, 101. 

Gettysburg Ode, 219. 

Gleichen, The Count of, 26. 

Goethe, 225. 

Guests of Night, The, 192. 

Harp, The : an Ode, 119. 
Harpocrates, 189. 
Hartz-Journey in Winter, 103. 
Hassan to his Mare, 61. 
Headland, On the, 11. 
Holly-Tree, The, 163. 
Hylas, 72. 

Icarus, 88. 

If Love should come again, 20. 

Imp of Spring-Time, The, 199. 

Implora Pace, 185. 

Improvisations, 196. 

In my Vineyard, 182. 

In the Lists, 179. 

In the Meadows, 99. 

In the Morning, 96. 

In Winter, 19. 

Iris, 184. 

Italy, In, 130. 

Jane Reed, 167. 
John Reed, 166. 

Khalil, El, 48. 
Kilimandjaro, 58. 
Kubleh, 75. 

Lars : a Pastoral of Norway, 303. 

L'Envoi (I 've passed the grim and threatening 

warders), 134. 
L'Envoi (May-time and August, November, and 

over the winter to May-time), 157. 
L'Envoi (Unto the Desert and the Desert steed), 

65. 
Lost Caryatid, The, 210. 
Lost Crown, The, 94. 
Lost May, The, 18. 
Love Returned, 25. 
Lover's Test, A, 206. 

Manuela, 107. 
Marah, 11. 
March, 139. 



348 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



Marie, To, 214. 

Marigold, 198. 

May-Time, 148. 

Metempsychosis of the Pine, 70. 

Mignon, the Song or, 102. 

" Moan, Ye wild Winds ! " 121. 

Mon-da-Min, 78. 

Monterey, The Pine Forest of, 109. 

Morning, 24. 

Mother, The, 30. 

My Dead, 94. 

My Farm : a Fable, 188. 

My Prologue, 209. 

Mystery, The, 98. 

Mystic Summer, The, 29. 

Napoleon at Gotha, 171. 
National Ode, The, 230. 
Neighbor, The, 95. 
Neva, The, 142. 
Nile, To the, 60. 
Nilotic Drinking Song, 56. 
Norseman's Ride, The, 132. 
Notus Ignoto, 181. 
November, 154. 
Nubia, 57. 

Obsequies in Rome, The, 235. 

Ode to Shelley, 124. 

Old Pennsylvania Farmer, The, 168. 

On leaving California, 92. 

On the Headland, 11. 

On the Sea, 64. 

Oriental Idyl, An, 54. 

Paean to the Da™, A, 37. 

Palm and the Pine, The, 91. 

Pandora, 203. 

Paso del Mar, The Fight of, 108. 

Peach-Blossom, 207. 

Penn. Calvin, 185. 

Persian Boy, To a, 62. 

Phantom, The, 100. 

Picture, A, 99. 

Picture of St. John, The, 249. 

Pine Forest of Monterey, The, 109. 

Poet in the East, The, 38. 

Poet's Journal, The, 7. 

Porphyrogenitus, 69. 

Possession, 27. 

President, A, 214. 

Proem, 147. 

Proposal, 91. 

Quaker Widow, The, 161. 

Return of Spring, The, 24. 
Return of the Goddess, 3. 
Rome, The Obsequies in, 235. 
Rome, The Voices of, 202. 
Run Wild, 190. 

Scott and the Veterans, 138. 

Sea, On the, 64. 

Serapion, 120. 

Shakespeare's Statue, 223. 

Shekh Ahnaf's Letter from Baghdad, 44. 

Shelley, Ode to, 124. 

Shepherd's Lament, The, 101. 

Sicilian Wine, 124. 

Sleeper, The, 187. 

Smyrna, 62. 

Soldier and the Pard, The, 83. 



Soldiers of Peace, 193. 

Soldier's Song, 101. 

Song (Daughter of Egypt, veil thine eyes !), 

Song (From the bosom of ocean, I seek thee), 

128. 
Song (I plucked for thee the wilding rose), 127. 
Song (Now the days are brief and drear), 98. 
Song (They call thee false as thou art fair), 

100. 
Song of 1876, The, 195. 
Song of Mignon, The, 102. 
Song of the Camp, The, 88. 
Sonnets. 

From the North, 212. 

President, A, 214. 

Statesman, A, 214. 

To E. C. S., 213. 

To G. H. B., 128. 

To G. H. B., 213. 

To George H. Boker, 68. 

To J. L. G., 213. 

To Marie, 214. 

To R. H. S., 213. 

To T. B. A. and L. W., 212. 

Where should the Poet's home and house- 
hold be ? 214. 

Who, harnessed in his mail of self, demands, 
212. 
Sorrento, 204. 
Squandered Lives, 13. 
Statesman, A, 214. 
Steyermark, 129. 

Stoddard, Richard Henry, To, 35. 
Storm-Lines, 126. 
Storm-Song, 127. 
Story for a Child, A, 143. 
Studies fob Pictures, 95. 
Summer Camp, The, 111. 
Summer Night, 186. 
Sunken Treasures, 96. 
Sunshine of the Gods, The, 180. 
Sylvan Spirits, 17. 
Symbol, A, 13. 

Taurus, 121. 

Temptation of Hassan Ben Khaled, The, 38. 

Test, The, 141. 

Thousand Years, A, 140. 

Three Songs, The, 102. 

Through Baltimore, 137. 

To a Bavarian Girl, 130. 

To a Persian Boy, 62. 

To E. C. S., 213. 

To G. H. B., 128. 

To G. H. B., 213. 

To George H. Boker, 68. 

To J. L. G., 213. 

To John Greenleaf Whittier, 302. 

To Marie, 214. 

To my Daughter. 206. 

To R. H. S., 213. 

To T. B. A. and L. W., 212. 

To the American People, 137. 

To the Artists, 245. 

To the Mistress of Cedarcroft, 5. 

Torso, The, 10. 

Trevi, The Fountain of, 91. 

True Love's Time of Day, 199. 

Two Greetings, The, 205. 

Two Homes, The, 183. 

Two Visions, The, 126. 

Tyre, 64. 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



349 



Under the Moon, 28. 
Under the Stars, 96. 

Village Stork, The, 211. 
Vineyard-Saint, The, 72. 
Vision, The, 25. 
Voice of the Tempter, The, 12. 
Voices of Rome, The, 202, 
Voyagers, The, 97. 

Waves, The, 127. 



Wayside Dream, The, 128. 
Wedding Sonnet, A, 212. 
Whittier, John Greenleaf, To, 302. 
Will and Law, 198. 
Wind and Sea, 94. 
Wisdom of Ali, The, 54. 
Woman, A, 26. 

Yonng Love, 19. 
Youth, 199. 







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